









Gopyrightl^? ^ Lxi 


COPYRIGHT DEPOSm 



IN SPITE OF ALL 


•l 





“He had taken her hand and was just 
Page 52. 


raising it to his lips.”— 


IN SPITE OF ALL 


A NOVEL 


BY 

EDITH STANIFORTH 



New York, Cincinnati, Chicago 

BENZIGER BROTHERS 

PUBLISHERS OF BENZIGER’S MAGAZINE 


1917 



COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY BENZIGER BROTHERS 



NOV -I 1917 


aGi.A476862 


TO 

JOSEPHINE DILLON 

IN REMEMBRANCE OF OUR OLD 
FRIENDSHIP 










CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 


I 

Sissy 

9 

II 

Miss Roche 

19 

III 

Sunday at Wharton . 

82 

IV 

The Clouds Begin to Gather 

46 

V 

The Plot Thickens . 

58 

VI 

The Scarlet Lady . 

73 

VII 

“1 Have Compromised Elea- 



nor” 

88 

VIII 

“The Hand of Douglas is His 



Own” 

97 

IX 

The Larchester Ball 

110 

X 

Another Manifestation of the 



Scarlet Lady .... 

129 

XI 

Lady Leigh’s Death . 

138 

XII 

“Fifty Thousand Horse and 



Foot Going to Table Bay” 

144 

XIII 

The Hardest Part . 

164 

XIV 

Christmas at Wharton . 

170 


7 


CONTENTS 


8 

CHAPTEE PAGE 

XV Spion Kop 182 

XVI Home-Coming .... 200 
XVII “O Rare, Pale Margaret!” . 219 
XVIII Charlie’s Marriage . . . 235 

XIX In Spite of All . . . . 251 

XX The End of the Chapter . 266 
XXI Maxwell’s Return . . . 276 


IN SPITE OF ALL 


CHAPTER I 


SISSY 



p in the North Countrie. Before us a 


wide sweep of rough grassy land, hilly 
and broken with stones. At our feet the 
salt waters of the Bay, running far into the 
land, and looking like a silvery lake in the 
sunshine. And beyond the blue chain of the 
Lake mountains, dreamy, misty, enchant- 
ing, like the entrance of fairyland, full 
of romantic possibilities and promises of 
stirring adventure. None of your trim, 
well-kept little southern places of thirty 
or forty acres: a vast property extend- 
ing over hill and moorland, seashore and 
mountain, as far as the eye can reach. Four 
counties meet on the estate ; behind us lie the 


10 


SISSY 


moors of Lancashire, on our right the York- 
shire hills. The house lies nestling in the 
hollow, sheltered from the keen winds, a 
long, low white house with a terrace in front 
on which peacocks pace to and fro, and 
pigeons flutter down from the dove-cote in 
the tower above. Joining on to the house 
is the chapel, surmounted by a cross, a pretty 
little building, but small and only intended 
for the use of the inhabitants of the Hall. 
The church is in the village, a handsome 
stone edifice, built and endowed by Mr. 
Wharton, to which the family repair every 
Sunday in order to set a good example to the 
congregation, which is composed almost ex- 
clusively of their tenants and personal de- 
pendants. The Squire makes it a rule to 
give all his farms to Catholics. The old 
Faith has almost died out in that corner of 
the country which once literally swarmed 
with Jacobites and Papists, but he is gradu- 
ally, with much labor and trouble, establish- 
ing a sort of nucleus of Catholicism on his 
own estate. Beyond this he does not at- 


SISSY 


11 


tempt to go. He is no proselytizer and the 
parsons (always more liberal than their 
flocks), satisfled with not being interfered 
with in their parishes, look on at his proceed- 
ings with a tolerance that is almost indiffer- 
ence. 

The front of the house is comparatively 
new, dating back only to the close of the last 
century, but the back is considerably older, 
a regular North Country house, built more 
for strength than beauty, with rough-hewn 
stones and small windows set wide apart. 
The rooms on this side of the house are low 
and small, leading out of long, low passages 
paneled in oak which the barbarous taste of 
a preceding age has painted green! On the 
walls hang the portraits of the family, with 
a curious likeness in name and featvu*e. 
John and Charles succeed one another almost 
uninterruptedly. Among the women there 
is more variety, as occasionally a favorite 
female saint gives her name to one of the 
daughters of the house, but even here there 
is a tendency to run in grooves, and the re- 


12 


SISSY 


ligious taste of one generation differs very 
little from that of the previous one. A 
thoroughly conservative old family, keeping 
up the old Faith and the old traditions in 
their quiet corner of the world and taking 
very little heed of what went on outside. 
“Cecilia” recurs again and again in the fam- 
ily annals, and many a pretty face with that 
name smiles down from the walls, but none 
fairer than the Cecilia Wharton who stands, 
on this autumn afternoon, by the fire in the 
morning-room with a smile on her face and 
a happy light in her eyes. 

She is about twenty years of age, with a 
pretty, rounded figure, brown eyes, bonny 
brown hair and a complexion that has won 
her the title of the Rose of Wharton. No 
beauty to set the world on fire, to drive men 
mad with love and longing, but a fresh, 
sweet, wholesome loveliness that rests the eye 
and contents the heart, a beauty that a man 
would be proud of in his wife or daughter, 
a beauty of the home and the firelight, to 
gladden one man’s life and be the crown of 


SISSY 


13 


his possessions. She stands in a favorite at- 
titude of hers, with her hands loosely inter- 
laced, gazing into the fire, the flickering 
flame lighting up the shimmering folds of 
her blue silk dress and reflecting itself in her 
eyes. Presently the sound of carriage 
wheels is heard on the gravel. The girl’s 
face flushes. She springs to the door, then 
changes her mind and slowly retraces her 
steps. The next moment the door opens 
and a handsome, broad-shouldered man en- 
ters the room. 

“Sissy!” he said. 

With an affected start the girl turned 
round. 

“Dear me, Philip!” in a tone of surprise. 
“Is that you?” 

A look of mortification crossed his face. 

“Didn’t you expect me?” 

“Well, I thought there was just a chance 
you might turn up.” 

“But I told you — and you don’t seem very 
glad to see me.” 

“Indeed, my lord ! Pray, what do you ex- 


14 


SISSY 


pect me to say? That my life has been a 
blank since I saw you last? That I was 
dreaming of you even now by the fire?” 

In spite of her saucy words there was a 
very tender light in the eyes she upraised to 
his. His face cleared, and, stooping down, 
he kissed her fondly. 

“I believe you were,” he answered, laugh- 
ing. “You httle humbug, you quite took 
me in! I thought there was something the 
matter. Well, have the cousins arrived? 
And what are they like?” 

“The most beautiful woman you ever saw 
in your life.” 

“Why, I thought there were two.” 

“Dear me, how literal you are !” exclaimed 
Sissy impatiently. “Of course there are 
two, but no one — no man, at any rate — 
would ever look at Mary when Eleanor was 
in the room.” 

“But you are not a man. Sissy.” 

“No,” she said slowly, with so serious a 
consideration apparently of this self-evident 
fact that her lover could not refrain from a 


SISSY 


15 


smile. “But do you know, Philip, I think 
I have got something of a man’s weak-mind- 
edness about looks. I could sit and look for 
hours at a pretty face.” 

“Male or female?” he suggested mali- 
ciously. 

She gave him a crushing look. 

“Now that remark,” she observed, “shows 
all the narrow-minded prejudice of your sex. 
You can never believe that one woman may 
honestly admire another. As a matter of 
fact, sir, we admire a beautiful woman far 
more than you do.” 

An incredulous “Oh !” broke from Philip’s 
lips. But Sissy stuck to her point. 

“Yes, we do. Mind, I don’t say we are 
not jealous of her. But that is, after all, the 
highest compliment we can pay her, and the 
one she would appreciate most. To feel our 
danger is the strongest proof of our admira- 
tion.” 

“But you. Sissy darling, have no such dan- 
ger to fear.” 

The girl’s bright face clouded over. 


16 


SISSY 


“I think not. I hope not. Those whom 
I have loved most have always loved me best. 
And yet — I wonder if you love me, Philip, 
as much as I do you. Nothing, I know, 
could make me change toward you.” 

“And nothing could make me change to- 
ward you. Sissy, what are you thinking 
of?” 

“Suppose,” she said hesitatingly, taking 
up a corner of her dress and beginning to 
pleat it between her fingers “that I were to 
lose my looks — or that some more beautiful 
woman were to come in your way — ” 

“You think,” interrupted Philip, starting 
up from the low seat he had taken by her 
side, “that I might transfer my affections to 
her? Thank j^ou. Sissy. I am much 
obliged to you for your good opinion.” 

He turned away indignantly, but she fol- 
lowed him and laid her hand on his arm. 

“Forgive me, Philip,” she uttered plead- 
ingly, “I did not mean to vex you.” 

Looking down he saw that her eyes were 
full of tears. His anger fled at the sight. 


SISSY 


17 


“You foolish child!” he exclaimed, taking 
her two hands in his. “See here, Sissy. 
When I first fell in love with you it was for 
your beauty — I do not deny it. You were 
the prettiest girl I had ever seen, and men 
are weak-minded, as you say. But I soon 
found out that your looks were the least part 
of you. It is you I love, not your beauty, 
and if you were to lose it all, everything that 
makes you outwardty so charming, you 
would still be my own Sissy, whom I love 
better than anything else in the world.” 

The girl’s eyes were glistening again when 
he concluded, but this time with happy 
tears. 

“Thank you, Philip,” she said simply. 
“I did not doubt you, and yet it is pleasant to 
hear it from your own lips. Good gra- 
cious !” starting. “There is the bell. I shall 
never be ready.” 

She fled from the room. Philip lingered 
for a moment, gazing thoughtfully into the 
fire. 

“Curious notion,” he muttered, “that of 


18 


SISSY 


Sissy’s. I wonder what put it into her head. 
She is not often fanciful.” 

The next instant he raised his head with 
a light laugh. 

“ ‘The most beautiful woman I ever saw.’ 
Well, we shall see if I agree to that.” 

And he walked upstairs whistling: 

“My love is like the red, red rose 
That’s newly blown in June; 

My love is like the melody 

That’s sweetly played in tune.” 

Sissy heard him, and a warm, rosy flush 
overspread her cheek. 

“Dear Philip!” she mxmmured. “How 
could I doubt him for a moment?” 


CHAPTER II 


MISS ROCHE 

H alf an hour later Sir Philip Leigh 
emerged from his room dressed for 
dinner and nearly ran into a young lady who 
was coming out of the opposite doorway. 
Mutual apologies ensued, and the girl, cross- 
ing the passage, knocked at a door a little 
further down. 

“Ai’e you ready, Eleanor?” 

“No. Go in first and say I’m coming.” 
“But Eleanor — ” 

The door closed, and he heard no more. 
“Apparently the beauty takes time to 
adorn herself,” thought Philip. “This is the 
sister, I suppose. She is not pretty, cer- 
tainly, but I rather like her face.” 

Sissy was waiting for him in the hall with 
a face from which every cloud had fled. She 
held in her hand a rosebud which she pro- 
ceeded to pin on his coat in the most ap- 

19 


20 


MISS ROCHE 


proved fashion. To do this she had to stand 
on tiptoe, for she was but a little thing, and 
Philip Leigh was unusually tall, six foot 
two in his stockings, and broad in propor- 
tion. They went into the drawing-room to- 
gether. A beautiful old lady was sitting by 
the fire — beautiful still, in spite of her sev- 
enty years, with a complexion hke a girl’s 
and features of cameo-like regularity. Her 
hair was still brown and luxuriant, and on it 
she wore, instead of a cap, a sort of arrange- 
ment of black lace peculiarly suitable to the 
stately style of her looks. She held out her 
hand to Philip with a smile, but without ris- 
ing. Evidently he was on a footing of in- 
timacy that rendered such formalities un- 
necessary. An old gentleman stood with his 
back to the chimney-piece, his watch in his 
hand, which he consulted from time to time 
with evident irritation. 

“Good evening, Leigh,” in response to 
Philip’s greeting. “Pretty well, I thank 
you. Can you tell me. Sissy,” suddenly 
turning to his grand-daughter, “what those 


MISS ROCHE 


21 


girls are about? They have been here two 
good hours. Surely that is long enough for 
any woman to dress herself in. In my time 
it was considered extremely bad manners to 
keep your elders waiting.” 

“Quite right, grand,” said a voice from 
the window, and a young man, the image of 
Sissy, as he might well be, seeing that he was 
her twin-brother, turned round. “Deuced 
bad form, I call it. If there’s a thing I 
hate it’s unpunctuality at meals. Upsets 
the whole house.” 

“I like that!” exclaimed Sissy, laughing. 
“How many times have you been late for 
breakfast this week?” 

“Seen the beauty, Leigh?” inquired her 
brother without deigning to notice the ques- 
tion. “A ripper she is, and no mistake.” 

“Charlie!” said Mrs. Wharton in a tone 
of reproof. 

“All right, granny — ^won’t do it again. 
You see,” he continued, addressing Philip, 
“I feel a bit responsible, for it was I who dis- 
covered her. Came across them last year in 


22 


MISS ROCHE 


Ireland just before the father died, and 
found out we were cousins. Third or fourth, 
I believe, but they think a lot of relatives in 
that coimtry, and the poor old boy was tre- 
mendously good to me. So when he died, 
and they were left very badly off, I thought 
I couldn’t do less than get granny to have 
them here. Quite disinterested on my part,” 
shrugging his shotilders; “for, between you 
and me, the beauty can’t abide me.” 

“I saw her sister, I think,” remarked 
Philip, “just now on the stairs.” 

“Polly? She’s not much,” began the boy 
disparagingly, “as far as looks go, that is — 
though she’s a good sort in her way.” 

“Hush!” uttered Sissy warningly. “Here 
they are.” 

A voice on the stairs, a rustle of silken 
garments, the door opened and the eldest 
Miss Roche, tall and stately, her low black 
dress setting off the dazzling fairness of her 
neck and shoulders, swept into the room, fol- 
lowed meekly by her sister. 

It is not often that one comes across a per- 


MISS ROCHE 


28 


fectly beautiful woman. Pretty girls are as 
common in England as blackberries, but 
beauty, real, undeniable beauty, such as the 
ancients dreamed of and strove to set forth 
in their statues, is what a man sees, as a rule, 
but once in his hfetime. Such was Eleanor 
Roche’s. Pale, golden hair drawn back 
from a low Grecian forehead, large, melting 
green eyes, over-shadowed by long black 
lashes, a classical outline, and a faultless 
mouth. Her figure was as perfect as her 
face — with one exception. Her hands were 
large, but white and well shaped, but her 
foot was her weak point — large, flat, and 
clumsy. She endeavored to conceal it by 
wearing her dresses very long, but with only 
partial success. No woman with a large 
foot is a graceful mover. It betrays itself 
in her walk, as though she were embarrassed 
by the weight she has to drag after her. 
Sissy’s foot was like a fairy’s, so light that 
it scarcely brushed the dew from the grass, 
and her hand was more beautiful still — a lit- 
tle soft, white hand with dimples instead of 


24 


MISS ROCHE 


knuckles, and a rosy palm. But, alas ! poor 
Sissy! What were hand and foot and all 
her delicate nameless charms compared to 
that matchless beauty, to find a simile to 
which one had to go back to the days of old, 
to that 

“Daughter of the gods, divinely tall 
And most divinely fair.” 

She went up to Mrs. Wharton and made 
her excuses with perfect self-possession; 
then, turning, she let her eyes travel round 
the assembled company. They rested for a 
moment on Sissy with instinctive aversion; 
then, passing on, encoimtered the direct, cu- 
rious gaze of Sir Philip Leigh. For a full 
minute they stood gazing into each other’s 
eyes, then Eleanor’s dropped with a slow, 
subtle smile. She was satisfied. 

“Miss Roche, Miss Mary Roche — our 
neighbor. Sir Philip Leigh,” introduced 
Mrs. Wharton. “John, will you take El- 
eanor in?” 

The Squire offered his arm to his beautiful 
guest, already half-appeased. She devoted 


MISS ROCHE 


25 


herself, during dinner, to effacing in his mind 
the memory of her fault, and by the time 
they rose from the table he was completely 
subjugated. Yet she found time to shoot 
more than one magnetic glance from those 
wonderful green eyes at Sir Philip Leigh. 
For the first time since she had known him. 
Sissy found his attention strangely dis- 
tracted. He told himself that he did not 
like the girl, that there was something ob- 
jectionable and unfeminine in her bold, di- 
rect gaze, so different from Sissy’s modest 
sweetness, yet his eyes kept wandering in her 
direction, fascinated in spite of himself by 
her marvelous beauty. Sissy noticed noth- 
ing. She was unsuspicious by nature, and 
the faint trouble caused by her first sight of 
Eleanor had been completely dissipated by 
Philip’s words before dinner. 

“Well?” she said, taking him to one side 
on their return to the drawing-room. “Was 
I not right? Is she not beautiful?” 

“She is. But I prefer your face, Sissy, a 
thousand times.” 


26 


MISS ROCHE 


He spoke with a warmth intended to con- 
vince himself as well as her. Sissy burst 
out laughing, and made him a low court- 
esy. 

“Thank you, sir. I hope so, indeed, con- 
sidering all things! But seriously, Philip, 
though it is nice of you to say so, I am afraid 
very few people would agree with you. She 
puts me out.” 

It was true. Beside her magnificent 
cousin. Sissy faded into insignificance as a 
candle is extinguished by the sun. Her 
lovely bloom looked commonplace beside 
that clear, transparent pallor into which a 
delicate color would come when she was 
flushed or excited, hke the light shining 
through a shell. To those who knew Sissy 
well, there was a beauty of the soul in her 
face transcending all mere external charms, 
but men are httle apt to look below the sur- 
face. 

“You must be tired, my dear,” said Mrs, 
Wharton, taking a chair by Eleanor’s side, 
“after your long journey. We have prayers 


MISS ROCHE 


27 


at half-past nine — so as not to keep the 
servants up, you know — and after that I 
should advise you to go to bed.” 

“Oh ! thank you, Mrs. Wharton, but I am 
not at all tired.” 

“Did you have a good crossing?” 

“Very bad, I believe, but I am a good 
sailor. I never mind the weather. Mary 
was very iU.” 

Mary looked it. Her face was green, and 
it was with an evident effort that she re- 
sponded to Charlie’s attempts to entertain 
her. 

“Now, then,” said the Squire, rubbing his 
hands. “Who’s for a rubber of whist? 
Miss Eleanor, may I have the honor of hav- 
ing you for my partner?” 

“I should be delighted, Mr. Wharton,” she 
answered sweetly, “but I can not play. 
Mary does.” 

“Mary shall not — not to-night, at anj^ 
rate,” exclaimed Sissy, a little indignantly. 
“She is far too tired. I shall be your part- 
ner, grandpa, if you will have me.” 


28 


MISS ROCHE 


“Come along, then. Leigh, do you take 
a hand?” 

“Not to-night, sir, thank you.” 

“Then, Charhe, you’ll play with your 
grandmother; and be good enough to re- 
member, sir, that you are playing whist, and 
not skittles.” 

“Certainly, sir,” responded that young 
man gravely, executing a prodigious wink 
for his sister’s benefit — which, however, 
passed unheeded. With a curious little 
pang at her heart Sissy watched Philip rise 
from his own seat and take one beside El- 
eanor, where he speedily became engrossed in 
a low-toned conversation, only an occasional 
word of which reached her ears. The color 
faded a little from her cheek. She applied 
herself to the game, but so listlessly, with 
such evident abstraction, as to provoke more 
than one impatient remark from her grand- 
father. What was it? Only a trifle, after 
all, but for lovers there are no trifles. He 
had preferred talking to Eleanor to playing 
with her. 


MISS ROCHE 


29 


“I say, Sis,” whispered her brother, tak- 
ing advantage of a pause in the game, “I 
wouldn’t allow that if I were you.” 

“What?” exclaimed Sissy, starting. 

He jerked his thumb significantly over his 
shoulder. 

“You keep your eye on her. She’s a deep 
one, and will cut the ground from under yom- 
feet before you know where you are. I’ve 
seen* her little games before now.” 

“Charles!” cried his grandfather angrily, 
bringing his hand down on the table. “Do 
you mean to attend to the game, or do you 
not?” 

“Beg pardon, sir, I’m sure,” said the boy 
penitently. “I only wanted to say a word 
to Sissy.” 

And for the rest of the game he behaved 
in the most exemplary manner; which was 
more than could be said of his sister, who 
made mistake after mistake, until at last the 
old Squire fairly lost patience and flung 
down his cards. 

“It is impossible to play with you to-night. 


30 


MISS ROCHE 


Sissy. What is the matter with you?” 

“I don’t know, grandpa, I suppose I’m 
tired. I’m very sorry.” 

There was a quiver in her voice as of un- 
shed tears. Philip looked up ; and the 
Squire, whose temper, if hot, was soon over, 
melted immediately. His grand-daughter 
was dear to him as the apple of his eye, and 
he could not bear the sight of her distress — 
though, if he had known the truth, he had 
very little to do with it. 

“There, there, child; there is nothing to 
cry about. We have all been young once. 
Your thoughts were wool-gathering, I ex- 
pect,” with a good-humored glance at Philip, 
who had risen from his seat and come to 
Sissy’s side. 

“Gooseberry-picking, more likely,” mut- 
tered Charlie under his breath. 

“And in good time there comes the bell,” 
said Mrs. Wharton. “Philip, do you care 
to join in our prayers?” 

“Certainly, Mrs. Wharton. I shall be 
most happy.” 


MISS ROCHE 


31 


Miss Roche turned round and looked at 
him in surprise. 

“Are you not a Catholic, then?” she in- 
quired. 

“No,” answered the young man, with 
rather an embarrassed laugh. “But I have 
no prejudices. And” — with a sudden im- 
pulse, turning to his betrothed — “where 
Sissy goes I am content to follow.” 

Sissy shot him a swift, grateful look. El- 
eanor smiled rather ironically. 

“That sentiment may lead you far,” she 
observed, and followed Mrs. Wharton from 
the room. 


CHAPTER III 


SUNDAY AT WHAETON 

T he Squire read prayers in patriarchal 
fashion, with his household gathered 
around him. Sissy knelt absorbed in recol- 
lection, conscious indeed of Philip’s presence 
by her side, but the consciousness only lend- 
ing a deeper fervor to the prayers she uttered 
on his account. As they came out of the 
chapel Mrs. Wharton held out her hand. 

“Good night, my dears,” kissing both her 
guests. “Sissy, take yovu* cousins upstairs, 
and see that they have all they want.” 

Sissy obeyed. She stood for a few min- 
utes chatting in Eleanor’s room, then left 
them, promising to send her maid. As she 
closed the door she breathed a sigh of relief. 
There was something baleful in the glance of 
the green-eyed enchantress, beautiful as she 
was, and Sissy, her hospitable instincts satis- 
fied, was glad to make her escape. She came 

32 


SUNDAY AT WHARTON 33 


along the passage deep in thought, and 
started violently as a hand was laid on her 
arm. 

“Philip ! How you frightened me ! I did 
not see you.” 

“I am so sorry. Sissy,” lowering his 
voice, “what upset you to-night?” 

She hesitated. 

“You will think me very silly,” she mur- 
mured at last. 

“Perhaps,” he answered, smiling, “but I 
should like to hear.” 

“I thought you seemed to prefer Eleanor’s 
company to mine.” 

There was a moment’s silence. Perhaps 
he was a little conscience-stricken. Then : 

“Sissy,” he said, “you must promise me 
never to think such a thing again.” 

“It was not true, then?” eagerly looking 
up. 

“True that I did not want to play whist. 
I was tired, and the Squire is a martinet, as 
we know. But as for preferring anything 
or any one to you — why. Sissy, I care more 


34 SUNDAY AT WHARTON 


for your little finger than all the rest of the 
world put together!” 

Sissy was comforted. She went to bed 
with a light heart and no foreboding of evil 
to come, no warning that even while Philip’s 
words dispelled her anxiety, a plot was be- 
ing laid against her peace. 

Eleanor was standing in front of the glass, 
her magnificent hair unbound and falling far 
below her waist. Holding a candle above 
her head, she surveyed every line and feature 
of her face with calm deliberation. The re- 
sult seemed satisfactory. She put down the 
candle and turned round. 

“You can sleep here, Mary, if you like,” 
she remarked. “This great four-poster is 
enough to give one the horrors all by one’s 
self. But you’ll dress in your own room.” 

“Very well,” answered Mary, meekly. 
“It was rather nice of them, wasn’t it, to give 
us a room apiece?” 

“I dare say they have more than they 
know what to do with,” said Eleanor, indif- 
ferently. 


SUNDAY AT WHARTON 35 


“What did you think of Sir Philip Leigh?” 

Eleanor smiled — a confident, superior 
smile. 

“I mean to marry him.” 

“Eleanor!” cried Mary, horrified. “He is 
engaged to Sissy.” 

“That makes it all the more interesting. 
Don’t be a fool, Mary. If I don’t look out 
for myself, who do you suppose is going to 
do so for me? You are cut out for an old 
maid, but I intend to marry if I can, and I 
am not likely to meet with a better chance. 
I am twenty-five, and I have no time to 
lose.” 

“But to take him away from Sissy, who 
has been so kind to us!” sighed Mary. 

Eleanor deigned no reply. She dropped 
asleep directly her head touched her pillow, 
and slept as those sleep who have neither 
heart nor conscience ; a dreamless sleep, calm 
as an infant’s. But Mary lay awake far 
into the night, in spite of her fatigue, pon- 
dering how she could coxmteract her sister’s 
treachery. It seemed such an ignoble re- 


36 SUNDAY AT WHARTON 


turn for the hospitality they had re- 
ceived, 

Charlie and Sissy were the children of 
Captain Wharton, the only son of Mr, and 
Mrs, Wharton, who had been killed in a 
frontier engagement out in India, The 
news of his death was brought to his wife, 
who had remained behind in England, await- 
ing the birth of her third child. The shock 
proved fatal to both mother and infant, and 
the twins, themselves scarcely more than 
babies, were brought to Wharton, where the 
bereaved and heart-broken parents were 
forced to lay aside their own grief and try to 
make a cheerful home for the two poor scared 
little creatures, clad in deep mourning, who 
clung to each other and went about hand in 
hand, refusing to be separated. They grew 
up united by the tie of a more than common 
affection. If one got into trouble, the other 
insisted on sharing the punishment, and it 
was no uncommon thing to come into the 
room and find both standing in the same cor- 
ner — “because,” as the innocent one would 


SUNDAY AT WHARTON 37 


gravely remark, “my twin was punished, so 
I came in, too.” 

Theirs was a lonely enough position. 
Their father was an only child, and on their 
mother’s side there was only an unknown 
uncle who had gone out to South America 
just before her marriage, and might be dead, 
for all any one knew to the contrary. It 
would be difficult to say which their grand- 
father and grandmother loved best. Charlie 
was their pride, but Sissy was the daughter 
of their old age, the help and comfort of their 
dechning years. She came out at eighteen, 
and they watched her successes with a mix- 
ture of pride and trembling, dreading lest 
any one should rob them of their darfing. 
But though she had plenty of admirers, not 
one of them seemed to touch her heart until, 
at a ball in the neighborhood about six 
months before, she met Sir Philip Leigh, who 
had just returned from abroad. The attrac- 
tion was mutual. They fell in love at first 
sight, and Mr. and Mrs. Wharton were 
forced to console themselves with the reflec- 


38 SUNDAY AT WHARTON 


tion that Langton Hall, Sir Philip’s place, 
was only eight miles off, and that Sissy 
would at any rate be settled near them. But 
they exacted a year’s delay. Even the con- 
vent, they said, allowed a year’s novitiate, 
and Sissy was still very young to know her 
own mind. Besides it would give them time 
to get accustomed to the idea of doing with- 
out her. 

Sir Philip submitted, though sorely 
against the grain. They had been engaged 
six months, and each day only seemed to 
bring to light some fresh beauty in the char- 
acter of his betrothed. Sissy was modest 
and retiring, she did not surrender herself 
immediately, but those who knew her best 
loved her most. Like a sensitive plant she 
expanded in the sunshine of affection, but 
shrank into herself at the least touch of cold- 
ness or distrust. She had known but little 
of either in her happy life. 

The next day was Sunday. Sissy came 
down dressed for church in a violet dress and 
a pretty little violet velvet toque. 


SUNDAY AT WHARTON 39 


“Which will you do, my dear?” said Mrs. 
Wharton to Eleanor. “Walk or drive?” 

“Drive, if you please,” returned Miss 
Roche, who never walked if she could help 
it. 

Mary looked relieved. Sissy was going 
to walk with her brother and Sir Philip 
Leigh. Perhaps Eleanor had repented her 
intention of the night before. She knew 
very little of her sister, after all. Eleanor 
had all the self-confidence of a great gen- 
eral; she could afford to waste an opportu- 
nity which was more apparent than real. 
Charlie would have been her escort, not 
Philip, and her refusal to walk would throw 
dust in the old lady’s eyes and in Sissy’s, too. 

Relieved from her enemy’s presence. 
Sissy’s spirits rose. She had been rather si- 
lent during breakfast, but now she rippled 
over with merriment, her pretty silvery laugh 
ringing out on the clear air. Philip, looking 
at her sweet speedwell face, reproached him- 
self for having caused her a moment’s 
trouble. 


40 SUNDAY AT WHARTON 


“I saw an old admirer of yours yesterday. 
Sissy,” he said presently. 

“Of mine? Who was it?” 

“Bernard Maxwell.” 

Sissy looked grave. 

“Poor Bernard!” she said with a sigh. 
“Ah! Philip, you have a great deal to an- 
swer for.” 

“Would you have married him. Sissy, if I 
hadn’t turned up?” 

“Perhaps. I can’t say. I can not im- 
agine now what it would be like to marry any 
one but you.” 

They reached the church. The Squire 
rode up, as they appeared, on a steady old 
cob which had carried him many years. The 
churchyard was full of people, with whom 
Sissy interchanged friendly salutations as 
she walked up the path followed by her in- 
tended husband. It was customary to wait 
till the Squire’s party had taken their places 
before entering the church. The family pew 
was raised on a sort of dais overlooking the 
congregation, so that Mrs. Wharton could 


SUNDAY AT WHARTON 41 


see at a glance who was absent. The organ 
was on the same platform. 

This was Sissy’s peculiar province. She 
made her way toward it now, surrounded by 
a little flock of school-children, whom her ex- 
ertions had trained into a tolerably efficient 
choir. As she mounted the steps her dress 
brushed against a young man of soldierly as- 
pect, at sight of whom Sissy’s color deepened 
a little. He bowed gravely, and she re- 
sponded by a hurried salutation without look- 
ing up. 

The congregation trooped into the church 
with an awkward reverence to the Squire’s 
pew as they passed. As Mass began, the 
coachman came with Mrs. Wharton’s fur 
cloak, which he laid on the door of the pew 
and took up his post beside it, like a sentinel 
on duty, only kneeling when the service re- 
quired it. It was like a little kingdom. 
Every man, woman, and child was personally 
known to Mrs. Wharton, and most of them 
had received at one time or another sub- 
stantial help at her hands. And as she 


42 SUNDAY AT WHARTON 


opened her prayer-book her eyes traveled 
round the church, noting one poor woman in 
mourning, another in deep distress, with a 
mental memorandum for future assistance. 

The young man to whom Sissy had bowed 
joined them as they came out. He was an 
old friend, evidently. Charlie greeted him 
with delight. 

“Why, Maxwell, old fellow, I couldn’t be- 
lieve my eyes when I saw you in church. 
What brings you here?” 

“Our regiment has just been moved to 
L— 

“How are you. Maxwell?” said the Squire. 
“You are coming back to luncheon, of 
course.” 

“Thank you, sir, I shall be delighted. 
How do you do. Miss Wharton?” as Sissy 
approached. 

She gave him her hand with a little em- 
barrassment. Sissy’s tender heart always 
smote her when she knew she had given pain, 
however unintentionally; and in this case her 
conscience was not quite clear. For she had 


SUNDAY AT WHARTON 43 


encouraged Maxwell, had even thought she 
might come, in time, to love him, till Philip 
appeared on the scene, and with the first call 
her heart surrendered. 

“The carriage is waiting, my dear,” said 
Mrs. Wharton, addressing Eleanor. “Will 
you get in?” 

“I think I will walk back, Mrs. Wharton, 
if you don’t mind,” said Eleanor sweetly. 
“The wind was so cold coming.” 

So the walking party set out. Maxwell 
taking up his position by Sissy’s side, and 
Charlie sticking close to his friend, and talk- 
ing eagerly all the time. It seemed only 
natural that Eleanor, whose walking powers 
were confessedly not great, should drop be- 
hind with Sir Philip Leigh. 

“An unsuccessful rival?” inquired Miss 
Roche presently, with a smile, glancing at 
the group ahead of them. “You are gen- 
erous, Sir Philip.” 

“I can afford to be.” 

“But, tell me, is he not a Catholic? Would 
it not have been a more suitable match?” 


44 SUNDAY AT WHARTON 

“I suppose it would,” answered Philip, 
laughing. “But, you see. Miss Roche, 
Sissy happened to prefer me.” 

“I can understand that,” said Eleanor 
softly, raising her eyes to his face, and Philip 
felt a thrill shoot through him, half of pleas- 
ure, half of alarm. 

At this moment Sissy looked rovmd. A 
shade of uneasiness flitted across her face. 
She slackened her steps, and let them come 
up. 

“I forgot to perform the introduction,” 
she said. “Captain Maxwell, my cousin. 
Miss Roche.” 

Both bowed, exchanging a long, keen 
glance. Eleanor’s eyes fell first with a sense 
of dislike and disquiet. Here was a man, 
she felt, over whom her beauty had no power, 
and she hated him accordingly. That grave, 
earnest face, those penetrating eyes, were 
more than a match for her wiles. 

“A bad ’un,” muttered Maxwell to him- 
self as he turned away. And he took an 


SUNDAY AT WHARTON 45 


early opportunity of asking Sissy how long 
her cousin was going to stay. 

“A month, I think. Why?” struck by his 
manner. “Don’t you like her?” 

“I don’t trust her,” said Maxwell briefly. 

“Nor I,” uttered Sissy under her breath; 
and then, ashamed of having said so much, 
she moved abruptly away. She laid herself 
out all that day to be as kind and pleasant as 
possible to Eleanor. Miss Roche watched 
her efforts with wondering contempt. 

“What is she up to now?” she thought. 
“I know she doesn’t like me. I suppose she 
has been abusing me to Captain Maxwell, 
and this is a fit of pious remorse.” 

But she received her cousin’s advances 
graciously enough. It was not part of her 
policy to quarrel with Sissy. 


CHAPTER IV 

THE CLOUDS BEGIN TO GATHER 

S issy was alone in her room. She had 
gone up under pretense of a headache, 
and was sitting gazing idly into the fire, her 
heart tom with a thousand vague suspicions 
too slight to put into words. There was 
something going on in the house which she 
did not understand. Philip was outwardly 
as kind and attentive as ever, yet she felt in- 
tuitively that there was a difference. He 
scarcely spoke to Eleanor in her presence, 
hut more than once she had intercepted a 
glance of mutual understanding which filled 
her with an uneasiness she could not define. 
Her face had lost much of the brightness it 
wore when we first beheld her, and she sighed 
once or twice — a sigh that told of a burdened 
heart. 


46 


CLOUDS GATHER 


47 


A knock at the door. 

“Come in,” said Sissy, without looking 
round. 

She supposed it to be one of the servants. 

“May I come in. Sissy?” 

It was Mary’s voice. Sissy started, and a 
flush of annoyance rose to her cheek. Even 
in her own room could she not be left in 
peace? But her habitual courtesy prevailed. 

“Come in, Mary,” she answered. 

And, rising, she opened the door. Mary 
entered. She looked around with pleased 
curiosity. 

“So this is your room. Sissy ? How pretty 
it is!” 

“Haven’t you seen it before?” asked Sissy, 
exerting herself to do the honors to her un- 
wished-for guest. “This is my little sitting- 
room. It used to be my school-room. The 
bedroom is beyond.” 

She opened the door between. Mary 
peeped in. It was a dainty little nest, a 
maiden’s bower, with all sorts of pretty 
things scattered about, Christmas and birth- 


48 


CLOUDS GATHER 


day gifts of many succeeding years, some of 
the dearest of all of little intrinsic value. 

“This is the old part of the house,” Sissy 
explained. “I like it the best. The rooms 
are small, but they are so quaint and old- 
fashioned. I love that old window recess. 
On a fine day you can see right out to sea and 
the ships passing across the bay.” 

Mary looked and admired, and envied per- 
haps a little. She had little experience of a 
life so sheltered and cared for. Her own 
had been a struggle with poverty from child- 
hood upward — poverty and a millstone of 
debt. Yet there were things, after all, that 
money could not buy, and what was the good 
of a happy past if it did not insure the fu- 
ture? She sat down at last, to Sissy’s dis- 
appointment. She had hoped that, her curi- 
osity satisfied, Mary would depart. Per- 
haps if Sissy left off talking she would take 
the hint, and go. She answered, therefore, 
in monosyllables. The conversation lan- 
guished, finally dropped. Still Mary re- 
mained. She had an object in coming, and 


CLOUDS GATHER 


49 


was trying to nerve herself to broach her 
errand. Sissy leaned back in her chair and 
lost herself in her own thoughts. Her eyes 
were half-closed and her face wore a weary, 
listless expression. Mary took note of it, 
and her heart filled with compassion. She 
bent forward and touched her cousin’s hand. 

“Sissy,” she said, “you are unhappy.” 

Sissy looked up ; her pride came to her aid. 

“Why should you think so, Mary? Have 
I not everything to make me happy?” 

“Everything. And yet. Sissy, you are 
unhappy, and it is Eleanor’s fault.” 

Sissy turned away her head. It was too 
true. She could not deny it. 

“O Sissy!” cried her cousin, kneeling down 
now by her side, “do you think I have not 
seen it? You have fought against the 
knowledge, you have tried to close your eyes. 
And all the time it is like a canker eating 
into your heart.” 

Sissy was silent. 

“Again and again,” Mary continued, “I 
have wanted to warn you. But what was I 


50 


CLOUDS GATHER 


to say? She is my sister. Even now what 
must you think of me, to be accusing my 
own flesh and blood? But I can bear it no 
longer. You have been so good to us. I 
can not stand by and see you tricked and de- 
ceived. Do you know that she meets Sir 
Philip Leigh every day in the conservatory 
when your back is turned? Do you know 
that she slips out to see him every morning in 
the garden before breakfast? That she 
leaves notes for him in her music — the music 
that she hands him before your very eyes?” 

Sissy sighed. That very morning her 
maid had come to her with similar tales. It 
was all over the servants’ hall that Miss 
Roche was setting her cap at Sir Philip 
Leigh, and the servants, one and all, were 
up in arms and ready to do battle on their 
young mistress’ behalf. 

“And if it is so, Mary,” she answered 
wearily, “what can I do? If my love can 
not keep him, what else remains to me?” 

“It is not him, it is her!” cried Mary, with 
an energetic disregard of grammar. “You 


CLOUDS GATHER 


51 


don’t know her. He is a tool in her hands.” 

Sissy winced. It was small consolation to 
hear her Philip, the hero of her girlish 
dreams, spoken of as the tool of an unprin- 
cipled, designing woman! Was he indeed 
so weak and his love for her so slight? 

“You are no match for her,” contin- 
ued Mary, quite unconscious of having 
given offense. “You are too generous, too 
unsuspecting. Fight her with her own 
weapons. Half measures are no use with 
Eleanor. Show her that you have found her 
out. Tell her that you will not endure it — 
that he belongs to you — and that she must 
either change her ways or leave the house.” 

In spite of her sadness. Sissy could 
scarcely forbear a smile. Yet the counsel 
was not altogether displeasing to her. Any- 
thing was better than fighting in the dark. 

“Thank you, Marj^” she said, kissing her. 
“I will think over what you say.” 

The tone was a dismissal. Mary rose, 
and left the room. And Sissy stood gazing 
into the fire in her favorite attitude, her head 


52 


CLOUDS GATHER 


bent, her hands loosely clasped together. 
When she looked up again, the hstless ex- 
pression had disappeared. Her resolution 
was taken. She would tax her enemy with 
her perfidy face to face and abide the result. 

Her spirits rose at the prospect of doing 
battle. She came downstairs, her face look- 
ing brighter than it had done for days, and, 
crossing the haU, opened the library door. 
What she saw there nearly banished her new- 
found courage. Philip and Eleanor were 
standing by the fireplace; he had taken her 
hand, and was just raising it to his lips. 
They started guiltily apart at her entrance. 
Philip walked over to the window and stood 
there, looking out, trying to appear uncon- 
cerned. Sissy turned rather pale; she put 
her hand unconsciously to her heart, from 
which the blood seemed suddenly to have 
ebbed away. Nevertheless, she walked up 
to Eleanor with a steady step. 

“I want to speak to you,” she said. “Can 
you give me a few minutes alone?” 

“Will it not do by-and-by?” asked 


CLOUDS GATHER 53 

Eleanor. “Sir Philip has just asked me to 
play a game of chess.” 

Her tone was almost insolent. Sissy 
flushed up. 

“Sir Philip must wait my convenience for 
once,” she said haughtily. “I shall not de- 
tain you long.” 

Her manner showed that she was not to be 
trifled with. Eleanor shrugged her shoul- 
ders and rose, casting a glance of mock resig- 
nation at Sir Philip Leigh. He started an- 
grily forward. 

“What does this mean. Sissy?” he de- 
manded. “Is it on my account that you 
show discourtesy to your guest?” 

Sissy looked at him with eyes full of an- 
guish. Never before had he said an unkind 
word to her. And it was to Eleanor she 
owed it ! But she stood her ground. 

“This is a question between Eleanor and 
me, Philip,” she said gently. “You have 
nothing to do with it. May I ask you to 
leave us alone?” 

He had no choice but to comply. As the 


54 


CLOUDS GATHER 


door closed behind him, Sissy looked up and 
caught her rival watching her with an iron- 
ical smile. The sight brought back her cour- 
age. 

“I have been told,” she began, “that you 
are in the habit of making clandestine ap- 
pointments with Sir Philip Leigh. Is this 
true?” 

“You have been listening to servants’ 
tales, I suppose,” said Miss Roche scorn- 
fully. “I thought you were above it.” 

Sissy colored. 

“We look upon our servants as friends. 
But that has nothing to do with it. Can you 
deny it?” 

Eleanor laughed. 

“What good would it do to deny it? You 
would not believe me.” 

“No,” said Sissy, drawing a deep breath. 
“You are right. I should not believe 
you.” 

“That I have made myself pleasant to Sir 
Philip Leigh is perfectly true. He seemed 
dull, and I took compassion on him. But — 


CLOUDS GATHER 


55 


I am sorry if it hurts your feelings — I must 
say that he met me more than half way.” 

“It is not true!” cried Sissy passionately. 
“You have led him on with your beauty and 
your false, flattering ways, but in his heart 
he is true to me.” 

“You think so?” returned Eleanor, with a 
slight smile. 

Sissy was stung to the quick. She made 
a step forward, then recollected herself and 
turned away, clasping her hands tightly in 
the effort to control her emotion. Eleanor’s 
eyes followed her with an expression of tri- 
umph. After a minute or two, Sissy turned 
round. Her face was composed, but very 
pale. 

“I do not choose,” she said, “to prolong 
this discussion any longer. It is insulting 
both to Sir Philip and myself. But I wish 
you to hear my decision. Either you give 
up these underhand ways, which threaten my 
happiness, and cease to hold communication 
with Sir Philip Leigh except with my knowl- 
edge and consent, or — ” 


56 


CLOUDS GATHER 


“Or?” repeated Eleanor as Sissy paused. 

“I shall be forced to ask you to leave the 
house.” 

This was turning the tables with a ven- 
geance. Eleanor was staggered. She had 
never anticipated this. Like many of her 
stamp, she had fallen into the error of mis- 
taking gentleness for want of eourage. She 
felt very much as if a dove had flown in her 
face. 

“This is strange language,” she said 
slowly at last, “to use to a guest.” 

“No stranger than your behavior. I am 
sick of it,” cried Sissy, with a sudden passion. 
“Do you think I am a stick, or a stone, to go 
on day after day seeing you steal away his 
love for me, and make no sign? I will bear 
it no longer. Accept my conditions or go.” 

Eleanor was completely borne down by 
her vehemence. To do her justice, she bore 
Sissy no ill-will for it. On the contrary, she 
rather admired her — from a purely dispas- 
sionate point of view. She had not thought 
it was in her to show so much fight. But the 


CLOUDS GATHER 57 

meekest animal will turn if it is brought to 
bay. 

It was a serious obstacle to her plans. 
A few more days, and she could have de- 
fied them all. But not yet. She must tem- 
porize. 

“I accept,” she said at last, looking up, 
“since there is no help for it. But, mind, I 
can only answer for myself. I can not con- 
trol Ms feelings.” 

“I imderstand,” returned Sissy, biting her 
lip as she felt the implied taunt. “It is all I 
ask.” 


CHAPTER V 


THE PLOT THICKENS 

P OOR Sissy! her victory was dearly 
bought. Philip held aloof from her the 
whole evening, and devoted himself openly 
to her rival. The reproaches of his con- 
science only embittered him — those who are 
in the wrong are always the least ready to 
forgive. Eleanor’s conduct was irreproach- 
able; she suffered rather than permitted his 
attentions, with a deprecating glance at Sissy 
that seemed to say: “You see, it is not my 
fault. I hold off, and he seeks me the more.” 
Sissy grew paler and paler as the hours wore 
on, her eyes followed Philip about with an 
unconsciously imploring expression. But 
he took no notice. His heart was full of an- 
ger against her. 

“What is the matter. Sis?” asked her 
brother, sitting down beside her. 

58 


THE PLOT THICKENS 59 


‘T am tired,” she answered, with an effort. 

Her grandmother looked up. The eyes 
of the old are unobservant ; she had not even 
noticed the little drama that was being en- 
acted before her eyes. 

“Why don’t you go to bed, my darling?” 
she asked. “I am sure your cousins will ex- 
cuse you.” 

Sissy shook her head. She would see the 
play out to the end. Perhaps Philip would 
change. He could not surely part from her 
that night in anger. But Philip showed no 
signs of relenting. He hung over Eleanor’s 
chair and seemed to have eyes for no one else 
but her. His face was flushed, and there 
was an obstinate look about the corners of his 
mouth — a weak mouth for all its beauty. 
Charlie watched him with growing indigna- 
tion. 

“I should like to give you a piece of my 
mind, my fine fellow!” he muttered. “Pity 
Sissy didn’t take Maxwell. He’s worth a 
dozen of you.” 

At last Mrs. Wharton rose. Sissy gave 


60 THE PLOT THICKENS 


a sigh of relief. She hurried out into the 
hall, hoping to get a word with Philip alone. 
But he did not give her a chance. He took 
up a lighted candle. Sissy stretched out her 
hand for it. Perhaps he did not see the 
timid httle movement ; he turned his back on 
her, and gave it to Eleanor. This was the 
last straw. Sissy gave a gasp. The day 
had been a hard one. She was tired and 
overwrought. A mist swam before her 
eyes, and she fainted away. 

When she recovered her senses she was 
lying on the drawing-room sofa with Phihp 
kneeling beside her, his face full of remorse 
and concern. He had been just in time to 
catch her as she fell, and, hfting her in his 
arms, had carried her into the room. 

“Sissy,” he whispered, “was it my fault? 
Did I make you faint?” 

She opened her eyes; they rested on his 
face with an expression of such tender, for- 
giving love, that the tears sprang to his own. 

“I am a brute!” he exclaimed. “Sissy, 
can you forgive me?” 


THE PLOT THICKENS 61 


F or all answer she held out her hand. He 
pressed it to his lips. 

“How is she now?” asked Mrs. Wharton 
anxiously, coming up. “Sissy, child, what 
was the matter?” 

“Nothing, granny. Only my stupidity,” 
answered Sissy, looking up with a bright 
face. And she tried to rise, but her limbs 
trembled under her, and she was forced to 
accept Philip’s arm. He conducted her to 
the door of her room, and parted from her 
there with a long, tender kiss and a lingering 
pressure of the hand. 

For a few days all went well. Phihp had 
never been kinder. He strove to anticipate 
her every wish. About the middle of the 
week he went back to Langton, and Sissy 
breathed a sigh of relief as he drove away. 
For once she saw him depart without regret. 
Eleanor’s stay was drawing to a close — an- 
other week and she would be gone, and things 
would go back to what they had been before. 
Meanwhile, she was glad to know that he 
was out of reach of the spells of the enchant- 


62 THE PLOT THICKENS 


ress. Her spirits rose, and she went singing 
about the house with so blithe a face that her 
grandmother kissed her, and told her she 
was a very sunbeam. Only now did she 
realize the strain her spirits had endured. 

Langton Hall lay in the valley, a finer es- 
tate than Wharton, but lacking its beautiful 
view. The house itself stood on a little emi- 
nence with a terrace in front, a common fea- 
ture in North Country houses. A river ran 
through the grounds, beside which sheep 
grazed, a curious breed with black faces and 
double horns, and a wonderfully white fleecy 
wool. Mountain sheep they called them. 
It was a fine old mansion built of white stone 
with oriel windows and a castellated front. 
The stables contained accommodations for 
over forty horses; they joined on to the 
house, making the long line of buildings look 
almost palatial. Inside, the rooms were spa- 
cious and lofty; there were no very old 
rooms, as at Wharton, but the house was old 
enough to contain some very fine wood-carv- 
ing of the Elizabethan period, most of it con- 


THE PLOT THICKENS 63 


fined, however, to the morning-room and the 
haU. The reception-rooms all opened out 
of one long passage, and communicated with 
one another, so that on the rare occasions 
when a ball was given at Langton the whole 
suite was thrown open with a magnificent ef- 
fect. There were some fine pictures in the 
dining-room, family portraits with the signa- 
ture of more than one distinguished artist, 
and all of them works of merit — with one 
exception — the portrait of a lady in a scarlet 
dress which hung over the mantelpiece, and 
the original of which was supposed to haunt 
the house. It was a wretched daub, and 
would have been taken down long ago but 
for a superstition which no Leigh had as yet 
found courage to overcome, a tradition in 
the family that if it were removed misfor- 
tune was sure to follow. The subject was 
never referred to in Lady Leigh’s presence. 
Nothing annoyed her so much as any sug- 
gestion that the house was haunted. She 
did not herself believe in ghosts, but it made 
her guests nervous and uncomfortable, she 


64 THE PLOT THICKENS 


said, and one unfortunate man who hap- 
pened to start a discussion on the subject at 
a dinner-party was never asked to the house 
again. 

Philip came down to breakfast the morn- 
ing after his return and found his mother 
waiting for him in the dining-room, a ma- 
jestic-looking lady with an aristocratic, 
haughty face, every inch a chatelaine. They 
exchanged their usual morning greeting, and 
Philip unlocked the letter-bag while Lady 
Leigh began pouring out the tea. 

“A whole pile for you, mother,” he re- 
marked, tossing her over a bundle of letters, 
most of them not of a very interesting ap- 
pearance. 

“Bills, I suppose. They always come in 
about Michaelmas.” 

Philip made no reply. He was turning 
over his own letters. Presently he came 
across one addressed in the bold, dashing 
hand which women affect nowadays, at sight 
of which he changed color, and looked round 
hastily to see if his mother were watching. 


THE PLOT THICKENS 65 


She was absorbed in her own correspondence, 
and, shoving it into his pocket for future per- 
usal, he began drinking his tea. 

“A letter from Sissy,” observed Lady 
Leigh, presently looking up. “I suppose 
you have got one, too.” 

“Yes.” 

“What sort of girls are those cousins they 
have staying with them?” 

“Very good-looking — one of them at 
least.” 

“As pretty as Sissy?” 

“My dear mother,” said Philip impa- 
tiently, “pretty is not a word to apply to 
Eleanor Roche. Sissy is pretty. Miss 
Roche is beautiful.” 

Lady Leigh pricked up her ears. 

“Since when have you ceased to think 
Sissj'^ beautiful, Philip?” she asked sharply. 
“To my mind hers is one of the sweetest faces 
I have ever seen.” 

“The sweetest face and the sweetest girl 
in all the world,” answered Philip warmly. 
“But not beautiful, mother. Beautiful 


66 THE PLOT THICKENS 


is too stately a word for our little 
Sissy.” 

Lady Leigh was only half satisfied. 
There was something under this which she 
did not understand. She determined to sift 
the matter to the bottom. 

“Ought we not to ask them to dinner, or 
something?” she asked, after a pause. 

Philip looked up. 

“I wish you would, mother,” he said eag- 
erly. “And I’ll get Maxwell over from 
Larchester to meet them. He’ll be de- 
lighted to come — he’s an old flame of Sissy’s, 
you know,” laughing. 

Lady Leigh felt more and more disturbed. 
Why should her son wish to invite a former 
admirer of Sissy’s to the house? Was it in 
order to distract her attention from some- 
thing he did not wish her to see? 

“Well,” she said, rising, “I will go and 
write the note at once, and send it over. 
Once I get them together under my own 
eye,” she added mentally, “I can judge for 


THE PLOT THICKENS 67 


myself. To-morrow will suit you, Philip, I 
suppose?” aloud. 

“Perfectly. I will ride over to Larches- 
ter this afternoon, and ask Maxwell.” 

Lady Leigh left the room. Her son 
looked round, to make sure she was gone, 
then drew the note from his pocket. It was 
from Eleanor Roche. 

“I am very unhappy,” it began. “I have 
been insulted — grossly insulted— on your ac- 
count. Will you abandon me, or will you be 
my friend, as you have so often sworn? 

“Eleanor.” 

“P. S. — If you answer this note, get some 
one else to address the letter. The sight of 
your handwriting would expose me to fresh 
suspicions.” 

The blood rushed to Philip’s face. He 
crumpled up the letter, and threw it into 
the fire. Unhappy! Insulted! By whom? 
Not by Sissy, surely! And on his account? 
All his manhood rose up in arms at the idea. 
His conduct had been weak and unworthy. 


68 THE PLOT THICKENS 


but he could not allow a woman to bear the 
blame when he had been in fault. This 
must be set right at once. He made a 
step toward the writing-table in the window. 
He paused. She was coming to-morrow. 
It would be better to wait till then, and he 
would be saved the necessity of resorting to 
the expedient she recommended, and from 
which his pride revolted. 

He threw himself into a chair. Since the 
night he had held Sissy unconscious in his 
arms, the thought of her often recurred to his 
mind, accompanied by remorse. Poor little 
Sissy! how well she loved him. That was 
the sort of wife to marry, a tender, clinging 
little creature, who would look up to him and 
worship him, not a beauty with whom eveiy 
man would fall in love. And yet — he 
checked the disloyal thought. 

Sissy was alone in her room when Lady 
Leigh’s note was brought to her. She read 
it with a face that grew more and more 
troubled as she reached the end. 


THE PLOT THICKENS 69 


“Dearest Sissy,” the letter ran — 

“Will you and Miss Roche come over to- 
morrow to dine and sleep? And bring 
Charlie with you if he is disengaged. 

“Ever yr. affecte, 

“Dorothy Leigh. 

“P. S. — I am very anxious to see your 
cousin. Philip tells me she is beautiful.” 

What did it mean? Had Philip 
prompted the invitation? Sissy felt her 
heart grow cold at the thought. And why 
was Mary not included in it? The post- 
script, she felt, conveyed a warning. A 
warm affection existed between Sissy and 
her mother-in-law to be. The engagement 
had met with Lady Leigh’s entire approval. 
She was not demonstrative, and had never 
been on such terms with her son as to feel, 
with the keenness some mothers would, 
his preference for another woman. Sissy’s 
sweetness had won her from the first with 
the attraction of a cold, self-contained nature 
to one directly its opposite. Sissy indeed 


70 THE PLOT THICKENS 


could never understand why people called 
Lady Leigh cold. She had treated Sissy 
hke a daughter always, and the girl felt 
now that if anything threatened her hap- 
piness Lady Leigh, at any rate, would be on 
her side. The thought did something to al- 
lay her disquiet. She sat down and wrote 
her acceptance. It was impossible indeed 
to do otherwise. What valid excuse could 
she make? 

There was no lack of warmth in Philip’s 
greeting of his betrothed on the following 
day, but his eyes wandered beyond her to 
where Eleanor was standing by his mother’s 
side. Miss Roche looked dazzlingly beauti- 
ful. She wore a large Gainsborough hat, 
which cast a most becoming shade over her 
fair face, and her cheeks were aglow with 
the fresh, frosty air. Frosts begin early in 
the North, and the trees and bushes were still 
white with the morning’s rime. 

Lady Leigh kissed Sissy affectionately^ 
and took her up herself to her room, leaving 


THE PLOT THICKENS 71 


Eleanor to the housekeeper’s care. It was a 
pretty room, set apart expressly for Sissy’s 
use. A fire burned brightly on the hearth. 
Sissy took off her things and laid them on the 
bed; then, coming back, knelt down by the 
elder lady’s side and took possession of her 
hand. Lady Leigh looked up. 

“Sissy,” she said abruptly, “why do you 
have that girl? I don’t like her at all.” 

“No more do I,” answered Sissy frankty. 
It was a relief to speak out to Philip’s 
mother, who would so shortly become her 
own. 

“Why don’t you get rid of her?” 

“She is going away next week.” 

“I wish it were to-morrow. She is a ser- 
pent, Sissy — a venomous snake — that would 
sting the hand that feeds it.” 

“But, mother,” objected Sissy — she often 
gave Lady Leigh that title when they were 
alone — “how can you tell? You have 
scarcely seen her.” 

“I have seen others like her. I know her 


72 THE PLOT THICKENS 


type well. My poor little Sissy,” taking the 
girl’s face in her two hands and kissing it 
fondly, “you are no match for her.” 

Mary’s very words! Sissy felt herself 
turning pale. 

“You have some reason — ” she began. 

“No, no, my child, no reason,” said Lady 
Leigh hastily, rising from her seat. “Only 
forewarned is forearmed, you know. Let 
us go down to tea.” 


CHAPTER VI 


THE SCARLET LADY 

HERE was a little commotion in the hall. 



X Some one had just arrived, and they 
heard Charlie’s voice exclaiming: 

“Hello, Maxwell! I didn’t know we were 
to have the honor of meeting you.” 

“Ah! I had the advantage of you,” an- 
swered Maxwell. “I knew the treat that 
was in store for me.” 

“Captain Maxwell!” said Sissy. “This is 
a surprise.” 

“A pleasant one, I hope?” said Maxwell, 
smiling. 

Sissy made no reply. It is doubtful in- 
deed if she heard him. She was looking 
round, in search of Philip. Her color 
changed a little when she caught sight of 
him ; he was seated in a corner by Eleanor’s 


73 


74 


THE SCARLET LADY 


side, to which he had returned after greeting 
his guest. Lady Leigh had followed the di- 
rection of Sissy’s glance. She was a woman 
of the world, and fertile in expedients. 
Walking straight up to them, she obliged 
Philip to rise from his seat and oflPer it to his 
mother. She took it. Eleanor greeted her 
with a smile, but with rage in her heart. 

“Sissy,” said Lady Leigh, “will you make 
tea? I always hand over that duty to Sissy 
when she is here,” she explained to Eleanor. 
“She is a dear girl. I shall gain a daughter 
without losing a son.” 

Eleanor assented sweetly. Inwardly she 
was thinking, “I suppose that was meant for 
a hit at me. She suspects me, I can see, but 
I think I am equal to her.” 

Tea was brought into the hall, where it 
was usually served at this time of the year. 
It was convenient for the men coming in 
from shooting, who lounged about without 
feeling their knickerbockers and gaiters out 
of place. An inner hall, shut off by doors 
and curtains, it was, to all intents and pur- 


THE SCARLET LADY 


75 


poses, a room, and was used as such. A gal- 
lery ran round above, on to which the bed- 
rooms opened. This was a drawback some- 
times to those who were sitting below. 

Sissy did the honors of the tea-table very 
prettily. She was never seen to more ad- 
vantage than in the discharge of these little 
household duties. She dispensed her cups, 
remembering every one’s tastes, and the 
young men gathered round her, almost de- 
serting Eleanor and Lady Leigh in their 
distant corner. The elder lady smiled, well 
pleased, but Miss Roche bit her lip with an- 
noyance. She was not accustomed to being 
left out. But her turn came by-and-by 
when she entered the drawing-room dressed 
for dinner and her resplendent beauty quite 
cast Sissy into the shade. Even Lady 
Leigh was forced unwillingly to acknowl- 
edge the fact. As for Philip, he could not 
take his eyes off her. He gave his arm to 
Sissy, as in duty bound, but at dinner most 
of his conversation was addressed to his left- 
hand neighbor. Sissy looked tired and de- 


76 THE SCARLET LADY 


pressed; she ate little, and Maxwell, who 
tried at first to engage her attention, pres- 
ently desisted, finding it of no avail. 

“Sir Philip,” said Eleanor, whose eyes had 
been wandering round the room, taking note 
of the beautiful old furniture and the pile of 
gold plate on the sideboard, “who is the lady 
in scarlet who hangs over the chimney- 
piece?” 

“Hush!” said Philip, lowering his voice 
and glancing round apprehensively. “Don’t 
let my mother hear you. That is the ghost 
who is supposed to haunt the house.” 

“A ghost! How romantic! And does 
she really do so?” 

“So they say. I have never seen her my- 
self. She is supposed only to appear to 
those who are meditating an injury to some 
pure and innocent person.” 

Eleanor changed color. Conscience she 
had none, but her superstitious fears some- 
times supplied the place of it. 

“She is not a very creditable relative,” 
Philip resumed. “She fell in love with the 


THE SCARLET LADY 


77 


man her sister was engaged to, a former Sir 
Philip Leigh who, by-the-by, I am supposed 
to resemble strongly. His portrait hangs in 
the gallery upstairs. Finding it impossible 
to get rid of her in any other way, she quietly 
poisoned her rival in a cup of chocolate, 
which was what every one took for breakfast 
at that time. It is a curious thing, but not 
one of the Leighs can endure the taste of 
chocolate. The very sight of it sickens me, 
I remember my mother trying to make me 
drink it when I was a child. But it was no 
use; she had to give it up. A funny sort of 
retribution, isn’t it, for the crime of a remote 
ancestress?” 

“Very funny,” murmured Eleanor ab- 
stractedly, “And how was it found out?” 

“The murder, you mean? It never was 
found out for certain. There were plenty 
of shrewd guesses, but guesses are not proof. 
A favorite maid disappeared about that time 
who might have thrown some light on the 
subject. And as the lady soon afterward 
attained her object, and married Sir Philip 


78 


THE SCARLET LADY 


Leigh, it was not in the interest of the fam- 
ily to rake up the subject.” 

Eleanor was silent. Her face wore a dis- 
turbed and uneasy expression. 

“People don’t poison others nowadays,” 
she said at last, rousing herself with an ef- 
fort. 

“Oh, I beg your pardon, Eleanor,” inter- 
posed Charlie suddenly, turning round. 
“It’s not at all uncommon. A medical stud- 
ent told me I had no idea how many wives 
poisoned their husbands without being 
found out. It’s so difficult to bring it home. 
But it requires a cool head and a sure hand. 
Now you, I should think, would make an ad- 
mirable poisoner.” 

“What do you mean?” exclaimed Miss 
Roche, flushing up, and Philip uttered an 
angry exclamation. 

“No offense. I was only thinking of the 
necessary qualifications,” getting up to open 
the door as Lady Leigh, catching Sissy’s eye, 
rose to leave the room. 

The conversation languished after dinner. 


THE SCARLET LADY 


79 


Eleanor leaned back in her chair, fanning 
herself with slow, indolent grace. She 
never took the trouble to exert herself in 
women’s society, and she knew it was hope- 
less to try to fascinate Lady Leigh. If she 
won Philip, it would be in the teeth of his 
mother’s opposition. Her presence was a 
blight on Lady Leigh and Sissy, who would 
have found plenty of subjects to talk about 
if they had been alone. When the men came 
in, Philip made a step toward Eleanor, but 
was forestalled by Maxwell, who quietly 
slipped into a chair by her side. Moved by 
Sissy’s sad looks, and guessing their cause, 
he determined to create a diversion in her 
favor. Philip was forced to fall back upon 
Sissy, to whom, however, he vouchsafed a 
very distracted attention. His eyes were 
fixed on the pair opposite, and he wondered 
angrily what they could find to say to each 
other. Maxwell could make himself agree- 
able enough when he chose, and Eleanor’s 
vanity was so flattered by the attentions of a 
man who had begun by taking no notice of 


80 


THE SCARLET LADY 


her that she laid herself out to the uttermost. 
Charlie Wharton was the only person who 
appreciated the humor of the situation. 
Philip’s jealousy was so evident that it would 
have been comical if it had not been so piti- 
able ; and, as for Sissy, it was like Maxwell’s 
luck that she entirely misinterpreted his con- 
duct. 

“Bernard, too!” she thought bitterly. 
“Not one of them can resist her.” 

And when bedtime came she gave him her 
hand so coldly that poor Maxwell was quite 
dumfounded. So much for the result of our 
best intentions! 

“I must see you alone,” whispered Philip 
in Eleanor’s ear, seizing the opportunity 
when his mother’s back was turned. “When 
and where?” 

“To-night in the conservatory when they 
have all gone up,” she answered with a readi- 
ness that showed her an adept in the art of 
concealment. 

“Faugh !” exclaimed Maxwell, passing his 
arm through Charlie’s as they followed 


THE SCARLET LADY 


81 


Philip to the smoking-room. “That left a 
bad taste in my mouth. I don’t like that 
cousin of yours, Charlie.” 

“Nor I. She’s a scorpion. But I gave 
her one to-night just the same.” 

He related with glee their little encounter 
at the dinner-table. Maxwell laughed. 

“I don’t know about the poisoning. I 
should think her talents lay rather in the 
mining line.” 

“The under-mining, you mean,” retorted 
Charlie. 

Philip proved so glum and silent a com- 
panion that after a short time both young 
men rose and wished him good-night. Their 
host heaved a sigh of relief as they disap- 
peared. He stood for a few minutes look- 
ing into the fire, then shook his head as 
though to get rid of some disturbing thought. 

“And now for Eleanor,” he exclaimed, 
and opened the conservatory door. 

Half an hour later Charlie Wharton, re- 
tracing his steps from Maxwell’s room, 
found that he had lost his cigarette case. It 


82 


THE SCARLET LADY 


was one on which he set considerable store, 
for Sissy had given it to him on his last birth- 
day. The twins always made a great fuss 
over their double birthday, and celebrated it 
by giving each other handsome presents. 

“Now where could I have left it?” he de- 
bated. “In the smoking-room, I suppose. 
I don’t like to leave it till the morning — it 
might get lost. Well, here goes. Hope I 
shan’t meet the Scarlet Lady.” 

He descended the stairs. The reception- 
rooms opened into one another; the conserva- 
tory led out of the dining-room and sepa- 
rated it from the smoking-room. As Char- 
lie entered the corridor he heard, to his sur- 
prise, the sound of voices. 

“Servants, I suppose. Rather late for 
them to be about, though.” 

The dining-room stood open ; he chose it as 
the shortest way. Entering the conserva- 
tory, he saw two figures standing with their 
backs to him — a gentleman and a lady in 
evening dress. 


THE SCARLET LADY 


83 


“Beg pardon,” he muttered mechanically ; 
then, “Leigh! Eleanor!” in a tone of stupe- 
faction. 

They started round at the sound of his 
voice. Philip’s face flushed to the very roots 
of his fair hair. Eleanor’s scarcely deep- 
ened in color. 

“You shall answer to me for this, sir,” 
cried Charlie furiously. 

“Whenever you please,” returned Philip 
haughtily. 

“As for you, you — ” turning to Eleanor. 

“Stop!” interrupted Philip. “Any words 
you like to me, but leave this lady alone.” 

“I shall say what I choose to my own 
cousin. Lady!” scoffed the boy. “Very 
ladylike behavior, truly! There isn’t a serv- 
ant in the house who wouldn’t be ashamed of 
it — to be caught here at this time of night 
alone with another girl’s lover!” 

“Charlie!” exclaimed Philip, stepping for- 
ward and laying his hand on the boy’s arm, 
“let me explain — ” 


84 


THE SCARLET LADY 


“There is nothing to explain,” shaking 
him otf. “The fact speaks for itself. Keep 
your explanations for Sissy.” 

He turned on his heel and left them. 
There was a short silence. Then Eleanor 
said: 

“I suppose he will tell Sissy.” 

“Of course,” returned Philip gloomily. 
“But I shall not wait for that. I shall tell 
her myself.” 

“You?” 

“Certainly. It is the least I can do. 
Poor little Sissy!” 

He buried his face in his hands. Pres- 
ently he heard Eleanor’s voice in low, terri- 
fied accents: 

“Philip! Philip! What is that?” 

He looked up. From the dining-room 
door streamed forth a blue, unearthly light. 
It lasted for a full minute without anything 
else happening; and then, to their inexpress- 
ible horror, out stepped the Scarlet Lady. 
She came toward them with a slow, ghding 
motion, her face pale as death, her eyes shin- 


THE SCARLET LADY 


85 


ing like red-hot coals. As she passed the 
corner where they stood, Eleanor trembhng 
violently, Philip with his arm thrown round 
her to sustain her sinking form, she turned 
and looked them full in the face. This was 
more than Eleanor could bear; she shrieked 
and went off into violent hysterics. Scream 
after scream re-echoed through the place, 
while Philip tried in vain to calm her, fearing 
that she would alarm the house. His fears 
were justified. In a few minutes they heard 
doors opening and shutting, steps coming 
along the passage. The door opened, and 
Lady Leigh, followed by her maid, stood on 
the threshold. 

“Philip!” thunderstruck. “Miss Roche! 
What does this mean?” 

Eleanor was in no state to replJ^ Philip 
took his mother on one side and endeavored 
to explain to her the state of the case. Lady 
Leigh heard him with manifest impatience. 

“Nonsense, Philip. Don’t tell me! You 
know very well that I don’t believe in your 
ghost.” 


86 


THE SCARLET LADY 


“If you had been here, mother, you would 
have had no choice but to beheve in it,” an- 
swered Philip gravely. His face was white 
and his forehead damp with perspiration. 
“But never mind that now. Do something 
to help this poor girl if you can. She is in 
a pitiable state.” 

“Serves her right!” muttered Lady Leigh 
to herself. But, being a woman, she could 
not have helped compassionating bodily suf- 
fering in her worst enemy, and, going over 
to Eleanor, she began, with the help of her 
maid, trying such means as she could think 
of for her rehef . These were soon effectual ; 
Eleanor opened her eyes and stared wildly 
round, then a burst of tears came to relieve 
her overstrung nerves. Lady Leigh suf- 
fered her to weep for some time without in- 
terruption; then she touched her arm. 

“Come,” she said imperatively, “that will 
do. Now you had better come up to bed.” 

Eleanor’s tears stopped; she rose obed- 
iently and went with the docility of a child. 


THE SCARLET LADY 87 

At the door Lady Leigh halted and turned 
to her son. 

“Mind, Philip,” she observed, “I shall ex- 
pect an explanation of this to-morrow. I 
consider it a most disgraceful scene.” 


CHAPTER VII 

“l HAVE COMPEOMISED ELEANOB” 

S issy’s pure dreams were undisturbed by 
the evil visions that haunted the waking 
eyes of her guilty rival. She came down to 
breakfast in a pretty tailor-made dress of 
dark green cloth, which suited her rounded 
figure to perfection. Philip sat next to her; 
his manner was grave and unusually gentle. 
He spoke very little, but devoted himself as- 
siduously to her. His face had changed 
color a little, when, on entering the room, his 
glance had fallen on the fated picture, and 
he had carefully chosen a seat with his back 
to it. Our midnight terrors lose a great deal 
of their substance in the clear light of day; 
yet, with the recollection of last night’s hor- 
ror fresh in his mind, he could not bring him- 
88 


I COMPROMISED ELEANOR 89 


self to meet the baleful glance of the Scarlet 
Lady. 

Eleanor did not appear at breakfast. 
She sent word that she did not feel equal to 
it, but hoped to come down by-and-by. 
Sissy wondered a little, but made no remark. 
Had any other girl been in question, she 
would have gone into her room on her way 
down, but there was little private intercourse 
between herself and Eleanor. She ate her 
breakfast with a growing sense that there 
was something amiss. Once or twice she 
caught Lady Leigh’s eyes fixed on her with 
an expression of attendrissement (I know 
no English word that expresses my mean- 
ing), but directly Sissy looked up they were 
instantly averted, as though their owner 
feared they might betray something she did 
not wish Sissy to know. Charlie, too, 
seemed to have something on his mind; he 
avoided meeting her gaze, and went through 
his breakfast in a silence that, from him, 
seemed almost funereal. The atmosphere 
was getting oppressive ; Sissy was glad when 


90 I COMPROMISED ELEANOR 


the meal came to an end and she rose to go. 
Charlie caught hold of her hand as she 
passed him. 

“Wait for me in your room. Sis,” he said. 
“I have something to tell you.” 

Before she could answer, Philip inter- 
posed. 

“If you don’t mind. Sissy, I should like to 
speak to you first.” 

“You!” uttered Charlie, in a tone of al- 
most fierce contempt. 

“Yes, I,” returned Phihp firmly. “It is 
my right.” 

The two men exchanged glances of defi- 
ance. Philip’s eyes fell first, unable to 
bear Charlie’s proud, indignant gaze. The 
young man smiled scornfully. 

“Don’t forget, my fine fellow, that you 
and I have an account to settle,” he muttered 
under his breath. 

Sissy looked from one to the other in sur- 
prise. What did they mean? 

“Of course I will see you first, Philip, if 
you wish it,” she answered gently. “I sup- 


I COMPROMISED ELEANOR 91 


pose what Charlie has to say can wait.” 

“Oh, you will know it soon enough,” re- 
turned that young man enigmatically, turn- 
ing on his heel. 

Philip led the way into the morning-room 
and closed the door. He stood leaning 
against the mantel-piece, resting his head on 
his hand, while Sissy wondered more and 
more what the mystery could be. At last he 
roused himself. 

“Sissy,” he began, “I have a confession to 
make to you. I would rather you heard it 
from me than from any one else.” 

And then hurriedly, but without softening 
any of the details, he recounted the events of 
the previous night. Sissy turned very pale, 
but she heard him to the end without inter- 
ruption. 

“And now. Sissy,” he finished, “you know 
all. I place myself in your hands. You 
are the judge. I am ready and willing to 
keep my engagement if you will let me. It 
is for you to decide.” 

Sissy did not answer immediately. Her 


92 I COMPROMISED ELEANOR 


face was buried in her hands, and she was 
praying earnestly for guidance. At last 
she looked up. 

“Philip,” she said, “answer me one ques- 
tion. If you were free to choose, which 
would it be, Eleanor or me?” 

“You push me too hard,” he exclaimed 
desperately. “Have I not said I am ready 
to keep my word?” 

“Answer me,” she insisted. 

His eyes sought the ground, ashamed to 
meet her gaze. 

“I have compromised Eleanor,” he said, in 
a low voice. 

“That is enough,” said Sissy instantly; 
“you belong to her, not to me.” 

She turned to the door. Philip threw 
himself in the way. 

“But, Sissy — ” he began. 

“There is no more to be said. Good-by, 
Philip. God bless you.” 

She left the room. Lady Leigh was 
crossing the hall. Sissy went up to her. 

“Mother,” she said, “let me call you so 


I COMPROMISED ELEANOR 93 


once more — for the last time. For you 
have, indeed, been a mother to me.” 

“Sissy! Sissy! What do you mean?” 
cried her friend, terrified by the girl’s man- 
ner and the wild look in her eyes. “There 
is some mistake. You have heard some gar- 
bled account. Let me explain.” 

Sissy shook her head. 

“There is no mistake,” she said mourn- 
fully. “I have seen Philip, and he has told 
me all.” 

She broke off suddenly as Charlie came 
into the hall. At the sight of him. Sissy’s 
self-control gave way. She sprang toward 
him. 

“O Charlie! Charlie!” she cried. “Take 
me away. Dear brother, take me home!” 

And, putting her arms round his neck, she 
burst into a passion of tears. Those tears 
probably saved her from a serious illness. 
The effort she had made to contain herself in 
Philip’s presence had been beyond her 
strength ; she broke down now, and cried like 
a child. Charlie soothed and comforted her 


94 I COMPROMISED ELEANOR 


with the tenderness of a woman. They 
seemed suddenly to have changed places, 
and, whereas Sissy had hitherto alwaj'^s 
seemed the elder of the two, it was he who 
now took the lead and she who clung to him 
for help and protection. 

“You are better now,” he said, when the 
first violent outburst of weeping was ex- 
hausted. “Let me take you to your room.” 

She was still trembhng, and needed the 
support of his arm. He half led, half car- 
ried her upstairs, and rang for her maid. 

“Nana,” he said, “wiU you put Miss 
Sissy’s things together? We leave in half 
an hour. And stay with her, please, till I 
come back.” 

“Very well. Master Charlie,” answered 
Nana, looking at him compassionately. She 
had been nurse formerly to both the twins, 
and loved them as if they had been her own. 
She knew as well as Charlie what had hap- 
pened. The news had flown like wildfire 
through the seiwants’ hall. It was not to be 
expected that Lady Leigh’s maid would 


I COMPROMISED ELEANOR 95 


keep silence as to what she had witnessed. 

Satisfied that he left Sissy in good hands, 
Charlie left the room and went in search of 
Lady Leigh. He found her in the morning- 
room, looking pale and discomposed, having 
just come from a stormy interview with her 
son. She had begun by reproaching him 
bitterly with his conduct to Sissy, on which 
he turned on her and sternly requested her 
to hold her peace. There were limits, he 
said, to what a son would endure from his 
mother. He was a man now, not a boy, 
and must be allowed to be the best judge 
of his own actions. And with this he left 
her, stunned and stupefied, and feeling that 
the end of her reign at Langton was very 
near at hand. It would have been small 
consolation to know that he was silencing 
his own better self as well as her. 

“Lady Leigh,” said Charlie, “I have come 
to ask a favor.” 

She turned round, and he saw that her 
eyes were full of tears. 

“Anything I can do — ” she began eagerly. 


96 I COMPROMISED ELEANOR 


“I know. You have always been kind. 
I am taking Sissy away. But Eleanor. 
Her presence is an insult to my sister. Will 
you keep her here till I can arrange for 
Mary to join her?” 

“Since you ask me,” reluctantly. “But, 
oh! Charlie, I wish to heaven she bad never 
darkened these doors 1” 

“Then that is settled,” said Charlie, not 
choosing to notice this remark. “Thank you, 
very much. It will make things easier.” 

He turned to the door. She stopped him. 

“Charlie,” she pleaded, “do not think more 
hardly of us than you can help. Philip is 
weak, not wicked. That woman has be- 
witched him.” 

The boy’s face darkened. 

“Dear Lady Leigh,” he said, “for you I 
have no feeling but respect and affection. 
But you can not expect me to think verj’- 
patiently of the man who has spoiled my sis- 
ter’s life.” 


CHAPTER VIII 
“the hand of DOUGLAS IS HIS OWN” 

I T was late in the day when Eleanor made 
her appearance. She judged it prudent 
to keep out of the way till things had settled 
down. A curt note from Charlie apprised 
her of her cousin’s departure and the ar- 
rangement he had made for herself. Mary, 
he said, would join her on the following day. 
She heard doors opening and shutting, voices 
in the distance, the sound of wheels on the 
gravel. Then all was quiet, and Eleanor 
thought she might venture down. To her 
disappointment, Philip was out. She was 
left to a tete-a-tete with Lady Leigh, who 
received her with chilling politeness. But 
Eleanor was not thin-skinned. She would 
have preferred to be on good terms with her 
hostess; but, after all, it was the son who 

mattered, not the mother. They sat to- 
97 


98 “THE HAND OF DOUGLAS’ 


gether through the long afternoon, occasion- 
ally exchanging a remark, but for the most 
part keeping silence. Lady Leigh wrote 
letters, and Eleanor read a French novel 
which she had brought with her, and which 
Lady Leigh observed with silent disap- 
proval. It was past five o’clock when 
Philip came in, tired out, having ridden far 
and hard to deaden thought. Sissy’s face 
haunted him as he had seen it last, her sweet 
eyes full of anguish. Philip was weak, not 
wicked, as his mother had said, and it was 
not easy for him to stifle the reproaches of 
his conscience. Eleanor had arrayed herself 
in a magnificent tea-gown of dark crimson, 
trimmed with lace. A colored tea-gown, 
she thought, was admissible even in mourn- 
ing. But Philip scarcely seemed to notice 
her. His mother gave him a cup of tea, and 
he walked over to the fire and stood there 
drinking it, his back almost turned to the 
corner in which Eleanor was sitting. For 
the moment she was positively distasteful to 
him. The display of dress by which she had 


“THE HAND OF DOUGLAS” 99 


thought to captivate him had exactly the op- 
posite effect. It seemed to him almost in- 
decent. He thought of Anne Boleyn put- 
ting on yellow robes and gloating over her 
fallen rival. Eleanor was conscious at once 
of his change of mood. What was to be 
done? If only she could get rid of that old 
mother of his! For, after all, the decisive 
words had not been spoken. 

The fates were propitious to her. A maid 
came into the room and whispered something 
in Lady Leigh’s ear. She rose with a look 
of annoyance. 

“What is it, mother?” asked Philip. “Can 
I do anything?” 

“No, my dear, I am afraid not. A tire- 
some old pensioner, whom I must see my- 
self.” 

She left the room. Philip threw himself 
into a chair, and took up the paper. Elea- 
nor remained quietly in her corner. Pres- 
ently he heard the sound of a stifled sob. 
He took no notice. Another. He threw 
down the paper with an impatient sigh. 


100 “THE HAND OF DOUGLAS” 


“Miss Roche,” he exclaimed, “is anything 
the matter?” 

No answer, but a lace handkerchief was 
applied to her eyes. 

“Eleanor,” in a softer tone. “Have I 
done anything?” 

“How can you ask? I have done every- 
thing you wanted. I have quarreled with 
my best friends on your account — and you — 
despise me !” 

The last words were almost inaudible — 
Philip was touched. 

“Despise you!” he answered warmly. 
“No, Eleanor, it is myself I despise.” 

“For liking me?” 

“No, a thousand times, no. Look up and 
say you believe me.” 

He crossed the room, and stood by her 
side. She raised her eyes. What strange 
magnetic power lay in their marvelous green 
depths that seemed to draw all the manhood 
out of him until, at last, with a groan, he 
sank at her feet and buried his face on her 


“THE HAND OF DOUGLAS” 101 


knees. She passed her hand softly over his 
bowed head. 

“Phihp,” she whispered, “do you love 
me?” 

“God help me! More than my hfe — 
more than my honor.” 

“And you will marry me, not Sissy?” 

“If you will have me.” 

A rattle at the door. They started apart. 
The next moment Lady Leigh came in, hav- 
ing paused for a moment to pick up her spec- 
tacle case. She glanced sharply at her son 
and Miss Roche, but they were at a most 
decorous distance from each other. Only 
Philip’s face was flushed, like a man’s after 
drinking strong wine, and Eleanor’s wore an 
expression of subdued triumph. Her cause 
was won. 

The next morning she was joined by 
Mary, whose eyes were reddened with weep- 
ing, and who looked very plain, poor thing, 
in consequence. That had happened which 
she had foreseen, and had endeavored in vain 


102 “THE HAND OF DOUGLAS” 


to prevent, and her heart was heavy with 
shame and sorrow. Her reproaches left El- 
eanor unmoved. Philip escorted them to 
Holyhead, and saw them on board the boat. 
They traveled first class in a reserved car- 
riage with obsequious guards and porters in 
attendance. The Roches were accustomed 
to travel third, and to give careful considera- 
tion to their modest tips. Eleanor felt, with 
satisfaction, that the old hfe of pinching and 
scraping already lay behind. But Mary 
gazed out of the window with misty eyes, 
taking little notice of her companions, whose 
low-toned conversation fell on unheeding 
ears. Eleanor had much to settle in a short 
time. She was leaving Philip behind, a dan- 
gerous thing to do, but before they parted 
she had his promise to come over and marry 
her directly the necessary arrangements 
could be made. 

Philip’s life was not exactly a bed of roses 
during the next few weeks. He tried in 
vain to induce his mother to be present at 
the wedding. 


“THE HAND OF DOUGLAS” 103 


“No, Philip,” she said with spirit, “when 
she is once your wife I must receive her, I 
suppose. But until then I decline to coun- 
tenance her in any way.” 

And Philip knew her too well to endeavor 
to shake her decision. The county, with one 
accord, sided with Sissy. She was Miss 
Wharton, of Wharton, whom they had 
known from her childhood, a very different 
person from an “unknown adventuress,” as 
one old lady went so far as to call her. There 
was even a question as to whether she should 
be received, but this was over-ruled. The 
Leighs were too influential to be publicly 
slighted. But in many little ways Philip 
was made to feel the weight of general dis- 
approval. Old friends met him with cold 
looks and averted glances; people, instead of 
stopping to speak, hurried on with a mere 
bow. At the meet of the hounds he was left 
conspicuously alone. Philip felt it keenly. 
Away from Eleanor her influence waned, 
and he realized all that he was giving up for 
her sake. It was only her beauty that cast 


104 “THE HAND OF DOUGLAS” 


a spell over him. She wrote to him every 
day, but her letters did her more harm than 
good. A want of refinement betrayed itself 
in every line, and more than once Philip 
winced at some grammatical error. How 
different from Sissy’s dainty little notes! 
But he had gone too far to recede. He had 
made his bed and he must lie in it. 

Charlie had ridden into Larchester to con- 
sult Maxwell about a tutor. The two 
were fast friends, despite the difference in 
their ages. It was with deep disgust that 
Charlie had seen Sissy’s dawning regard for 
Maxwell quenched when she fell suddenly 
and violently in love with Sir Philip Leigh. 
It was done in a moment; she was carried 
off her feet by an emotion so strong, so ar- 
dent, that it swept everything before it. 
There were religious difficulties to be over- 
come, but Philip gave way on every point, 
and Mr. Wharton had no excuse for refusing 
what was, after all, a brilliant match for his 
grand-daughter. It hurt Charlie on his own 
account to lose his twin-sister, who had 


THE HAND OF DOUGLAS” 105 


hitherto shared every thought with him, and 
who was now wrapped up in her lover. But 
he could not resist Sissy’s pleadings and the 
sight of her happiness, and allowed himself 
reluctantly to be drawn into some sort of 
intimacy with Philip, though he still felt sore 
over the disappointment to his friend. As 
for Maxwell, he made no sign. His silent, 
reserved nature was not easy to fathom. 
To all appearance he was still content to be 
Sissy’s friend, since he could be no more, and 
even Charlie could only guess at the depth 
of the feeling that lay below the surface. 

As long as Sissy was happy. Maxwell 
could subdue his spirit to endurance. He 
had been brought up in a stern school, and 
had learned not to expect too much of life. 
What did he matter, after all? a younger son * 
who had never been of much importance to 
any one. But Sissy — ^his ideal of all that 
was best and sweetest in womanhood, to see 
her rejected and cast aside by the man who 
had stolen her from him ! If only he had the 
right to console her! But he knew Sissy’s 


106 “THE HAND OF DOUGLAS” 


steadfast nature. She had given her love, 
and she could not withdraw it because the 
man she cared for had proved imworthy. 
He clenched his hands in impotent resent- 
ment. 

Charlie lunched at the mess, where he was 
a frequent and welcome guest. After lunch- 
eon he went up to Maxwell’s rooms for a 
talk and smoke. The conversation lan- 
guished, however. Both were conscious of 
thoughts underlying the trivial words. 

“I tell you. Maxwell,” broke out Charlie 
suddenly, interrupting his friend’s speech, to 
which he had been paying very little atten- 
tion, “I won’t stand it. Do you think I am 
going to sit down and pocket the affront? 
He shall give me satisfaction.” 

“What can you do, Charlie?” said Max- 
well. “People don’t fight duels nowa- 
days.” 

“I can give him a good hiding the first 
time I come across him,” the boy retorted. 
“Oh, I know he’s bigger than I am, but a 
good cause lends strength to the arm.” 


“THE HAND OF DOUGLAS” 107 


“No, Charlie, you won’t do that. For 
Sissy’s sake. Do you want to make her 
name the talk of the county?” 

“Do you suppose it isn’t that already?” 
asked Charlie bitterly. And then he sud- 
denly broke down, and, laying his head on 
the mantel-piece, sobbed aloud. 

“I can’t help it, Maxwell,” he uttered 
brokenly. “My httle Sissy 1 So pretty and 
so good. Do you remember when she was 
quite a little girl you used to call her the Rose 
of Wharton? And now!” 

“Is she so changed?” 

“The old people don’t see it. She always 
manages to get up a smile for them. But 
she eats next to nothing, and when she comes 
down in the morning I can see by her eyes 
that she hasn’t slept. And then, when she 
thinks no one is looking, such a tired, hope- 
less look comes over her face, and she sighs 
— a sigh that would make your heart ache. 
Curse him!” exclaimed Charlie. “What on 
earth made her pitch on him ? Why couldn’t 
she have taken to you instead?” 


108 “THE HAND OF DOUGLAS” 


“Don’t, Charlie,” said Maxwell unsteadily. 
“I can’t stand it.” 

He walked over to the window and stood 
there, biting his moustache, and trying to 
control himself. They were very bitter 
thoughts which Charlie’s words had roused. 

“Well, I must be off, old man,” said Char- 
lie at length. “The days are getting short, 
and I have a long ride home. By-the-by, 
there’s that collie'pup you were asking about. 
When will you come over and see him? 
Come on Wednesday, and stay the night.” 

They descended the stairs, and stood wait- 
ing on the steps for Charlie’s horse to be 
brought round. Just then Philip came into 
the yard, accompanied by two or three offi- 
cers. He had been in Larchester interview- 
ing the family solicitor on business connected 
with his marriage. At the sight of him, 
Charhe’s eyes blazed; he made a step for- 
ward, grasping his hunting crop, but Max- 
well touched his arm, and, putting a visible 
constraint on himself, he sprang into the sad- 
dle and rode away without looking back. 


THE HAND OF DOUGLAS” 109 


Philip hesitated a moment, then advanced. 

“How are you, Maxwell?” he said, rather 
awkwardly, and held out his hand. 

But Maxwell did not appear to see it. 
Philip turned very red. 

“What am I to make of this. Maxwell?” 
he demanded. 

“What you please. It is pretty clear, I 
think,” answered Maxwell coolly. “I don’t 
wish to continue our acquaintance.” 

He walked away, leaving an uncomforta- 
ble sensation behind him. He had preached 
moderation to Charlie, but it is easier to 
preach than to practice, and his heart was not 
within him. 

“I say. Maxwell,” said one of his brother- 
officers to him afterward, “you were a bit 
rough on Leigh just now. You need not 
have made it so public.” 

“The hand of Douglas is his own,” quoted 
Maxwell lightly, and his friend judged it 
prudent to say no more. 


CHAPTER IX 

THE LAECHESTER BALL 

T WO years had gone by. Charlie had 
passed into the army, and into Max- 
well’s regiment. It was still stationed at 
Larchester, and, though Charlie no longer 
lived at Wharton, he was over there con- 
stantly with one or other of his brother-offi- 
cers, who found the old house pleasant 
enough, with its young and charming hostess. 
For Sissy was practically mistress there now, 
though Mrs. Wharton nominally still held 
the reins. The old lady seldom stirred out 
of the house during the winter — such rough 
winters as they have in the North! Snow 
lay on the hills — damp snow, for there was 
always moisture from the Irish Sea. And 
when the wind shifted to the east it blew 

cold and piercing from the Yorkshire moors, 
no 


THE LARCHESTER BALL 111 


Only young blood could bear it. But the 
stout old walls shut out the cold, and coal 
is not stinted in the hospitable Northern 
counties. Charlie’s pretty sister was the 
belle of the regiment. Half the yoimg sub- 
alterns were in love with her; but, though 
delightful to all, no one could boast of any 
special favor. One or two suspected that 
“old Maxwell” might be a dark horse, but his 
devotion was too unobtrusive to excite re- 
mark. She had regained apparently all her 
old gaiety, but the wound was only skinned 
over and liable to ache at a careless touch. 

Eleanor — Lady Leigh — ^had presented 
her husband with a son. There were great 
rejoicings at Langton, and the Dowager 
Lady Leigh, who had refused to be present 
at her son’s wedding, consented to appear at 
her grandson’s christening, where she fig- 
ured as one of the sponsors. A year later 
the boy was followed by a girl, and Lady 
Leigh, who had taken up her abode in Lon- 
don, again came down to spend a few days 
under her son’s roof. She was outwardly on 


112 THE LARCHESTER BALL 


good terms with her daughter-in-law, though 
no real sympathy could exist between such 
opposite natures. But Philip was her only 
child; and, little as she liked his choice, she 
had to make the best of it. Eleanor, on her 
side, felt the impolicy of being openly at 
variance with her husband’s mother. Peo- 
ple are conservative in the North, and Lady 
Leigh belonged to one of the oldest families 
in the county, whereas she herself was a new- 
comer, and had made a bad start to begin 
with. She temporized, therefore, on the sur- 
face. At the same time she was quite de- 
termined to stand no interference with her 
aflPairs. She ruled Philip completely. One 
of her first acts of authority was to order the 
removal of the Scarlet Lady. She could not 
eat her dinner, she declared, with that pic- 
ture in front of her. The old housekeeper 
nearly went down on her knees to implore 
her not to risk the calamities which tradi- 
tion averred would follow. Eleanor laughed 
in her face. She had no fear of tangible 
evils. They could be met and overcome. 


THE LARCHESTER BALL 113 


It was the supernatural which daunted her. 
So the picture was taken down and banished 
to a remote garret, and its place was filled 
by a magnificent portrait of Eleanor dressed 
in white satin and painted by one of the first 
artists of the day. 

Lady Leigh’s visits to her son and daugh- 
ter-in-law were never very long ones. The 
contrast was too painful between the past 
and the present. It was not pleasant to be 
a cipher in the house where she once was 
mistress ; and though, in any case, she must 
have yielded her place to her son’s wife. 
How different it would have been with Sissy ! 
— dear Sissy, whom she had not seen or heard 
from since Charlie took her away. The 
breach was too complete. She could not 
outwardly side against her son. And Sissy, 
on her side, found it difficult, if not impos- 
sible, to make advances to Philip’s mother. 
Yet each cherished the*old tenderness in her 
heart, and the hope that one day the barrier 
might be removed. 

It was all so different. Mary Roche kept 


114 THE LARCHESTER BALL 


house, while Eleanor sat at the head of the 
table and looked beautiful. And Mary’s 
housekeeping was not to Lady Leigh’s lik- 
ing. She was not popular in the household, 
the servants considered her mean and cheese- 
paring. Her nature was essentially con- 
scientious, and it took her some time to get 
accustomed to the inevitable waste of a large 
establishment. She toiled early and late at 
her ungrateful task, meeting with very little 
thanks from any one. Philip had no idea 
how the money went. He only knew that 
Eleanor’s demands were not easy to satisfy. 
“Set a beggar on horseback” is a homely 
proverb, but with a good deal of truth in it. 
Eleanor spent with reckless prodigality — on 
herself — and, when Philip remonstrated, re- 
torted: 

“You would not have stinted Sissy. But 
she had money of her own. It is because I 
have none that you are so stingy !” 

Which reduced him to silence. 

“Sissy,” said Charlie one evening, “what 
are you going to do about the ball?” 


THE LARCHESTER BALL 115 


He had just come in from shooting, and 
was standing wanning himself by the library 
fire. 

“The ball, Charlie?” she echoed. 

“Yes. You are going to it, of course.” 

“I thought not. It is such a long drive 
home.” 

“Rubbish!” interrupted Charlie. “You 
never thought it long before. Do you know 
what people will say? That you can not 
meet Sir Philip Leigh.” 

Sissy colored. It was true that, whether 
by accident or design, she had not met Philip 
since his marriage. He and Eleanor had 
been away a good deal, and the previous year, 
owing to the death of a local magnate, the 
ball had not taken place. The neighbors 
had avoided, as much as possible, asking 
Sissy to meet the Leighs. But this could not 
last. 

“You need not be afraid,” continued 
Charlie. “Our fellows will stand by you to 
a man.” 

“I am not afraid,” said Sissy rather 


116 THE LARCHESTER BALL 


proudly. “And I will go, Charlie,” with an 
effort, “if you wish it.” 

“That is my own brave girl,” kissing her. 
“I do wish it. I can not bear you to show 
the white feather before that jade Eleanor.” 

He left the room, but Sissy remained be- 
hind. Her mind was rather disturbed. She 
had schooled her heart to submission; al- 
most, she thought, to forgetfulness, but she 
was now to be put to the test. She rose, 
and, crossing the room, leaned her head 
against the window, from which she had so 
often watched Philip ride away in the days 
gone by. It was dark outside, but the moon 
was rising over the hiU behind the belt of 
trees, and she could see faintly the white road 
winding upward through the park. He was 
married to another woman, the man with 
whom she had once thought to pass her life. 
Married! He had two children. She had 
met the little boy only yesterday with his 
nurse, a beautiful child, with his father’s eyes, 
and nothing of his mother about him. She 
had not been able to resist the temptation of 


THE LARCHESTER BALL 117 


stopping to give him a kiss. The nurse was 
a stranger, and would not recognize her. 
What would Charlie say if he knew? But 
there was no reason why he should know. 

She moved away presently with a sigh, and 
went up to her room, where her old nurse 
was waiting to help her to dress for dinner. 

“Mr. Charlie wants me to go to the ball, 
Nana,” she said. “What shall I wear?” 

“You must have a new dress. Miss Sissy,” 
counseled Nana. “What you have isn’t fit. 
All the county will be there, and you must 
look your best.” 

“Oh! what does it matter?” said Sissy 
rather wearily. “There is no one to care.” 

“Indeed, Miss Sissy, you are wrong to 
talk like that. What about Mr. Charlie — 
and Captain Maxwell, who worships the 
ground you walk on?” 

“I think you must be in Captain Max- 
well’s pay, Nana,” said Sissy, laughing. 
“You are always singing his praises.” 

So the dress was ordered from London, a 
delicate pale pink that suited Sissy to per- 


118 THE LARCHESTER BALL 


fection, and brought out the soft tints of her 
eyes and hair. She drove into Larchester on 
the day of the ball, having arranged to dine 
with Mrs. Fraser, the Colonel’s wife, who 
would chaperone her. Charlie was to see her 
home. Mrs. Fraser was a recent convert, 
and Sissy had been very kind to her at a time 
when she sorely needed sympathy and com- 
fort. Colonel Fraser had taken his wife’s 
change of religion very well. He said that, 
at her age, she had a right to judge for her- 
self. But when, a year later, a boy was 
born to them, their first child, there was 
trouble. To please his wife, whose fretting 
over the matter threatened to endanger her 
health, he consented to have the child bap- 
tized in the Catholic Church. He attached 
little importance himself to infant baptism. 
But he would give no pledge for the future. 
There was nothing for it but to wait and 
pray. Sissy stood godmother to the boy, 
and comforted her friend with hopeful prog- 
nostications. 

Already, she said, they had gained far 


THE LARCHESTER BALL 119 


more than they had ventured to hope. Hav- 
ing become a Catholic after her marriage, 
Margaret Fraser could make no conditions. 
All depended on her husband’s will. One 
day Sissy, who had gone into Larchester to 
do some shopping, went into the church to 
pay a little visit before returning home. 
Kneeling in front of the altar, she saw her 
friend, her fair, Madonna-like face upraised 
to heaven with a yearning look in her eyes, 
and holding out her child in her outstretched 
arms, as though imploring a blessing upon 
him. There was no one else in the church. 
Sissy felt like an intruder, and noiselessly 
slipped away. 

“Sissy,” said Margaret Fraser, greeting 
her with a warm embrace, “I asked Captain 
Maxwell to dine with us, and go on to the 
ball. I wanted your brother to come, too, 
but he was engaged.” 

“To the last object of his fickle affections,” 
said Sissy, laughing, “Miss Skeffington.” 

“Was that it? I did not know. She is 
very pretty, isn’t she?” 


120 THE LARCHESTER BALL 


“I suppose she is,” said Sissy, “though not 
the style I admire. But she isn’t the first, 
Margaret, and she won’t be the last. 
Charlie’s heart is like an omnibus — it 
carries many passengers, and none of them 
long. 

It was a pleasant little dinner. Maxwell 
came out of his shell, and made himself very 
agreeable. He had a staunch friend in Mrs. 
Fraser, and was well aware of it. She knew 
Sissy’s story, of course, and longed to see her 
married to a man who would make her for- 
get the past. Sissy was a great favorite with 
the Colonel, and had more influence with 
him than she knew. Margaret, thinking of 
her boy, did all she could to promote a good 
understanding between them. Everything 
that made him more friendly to Catholics was 
a distinct gain. 

Sissy entered the ball-room on the Col- 
onel’s arm, and was promptly surrounded 
and besieged with applications for dances. 
Her card was soon full to overflowing. The 
Rose of Wharton was looking her loveliest. 





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THE LARCHESTER BALL 121 


and Maxwell could hardly take his eyes off 
her. She had been very sweet and friendly 
to him at dinner. Was it possible that there 
was a chance for him, after aU? Charlie was 
flirting conspicuously with Miss Skefiington, 
who was nothing loth, but found time to keep 
a watch on his sister, who was manifestly en- 
joying herself. The ball was in full swing 
when the Langton party arrived, having 
been detained by a difference of opinion be- 
tween Sir Philip and Lady Leigh. Eleanor 
had just finished dressing when the nurse 
came into the room with a disturbed and anx- 
ious air. 

“I beg yoiu* ladyship’s pardon,” she began, 
“but would you please look in and see Mas- 
ter Philip before you go? He doesn’t seem 
at all well.” 

Philip was standing by the dressing-table. 
He turned sharply round. 

“What is the matter with him?” he de- 
manded. 

“It’s croup, sir, I’m afraid,” answered the 
woman. “He’s breathing so heavy-like. 


122 THE L ARCHESTER BALL 


He’s not been himself all day. If her lady- 
ship would just step in for a minute, I should 
feel more comfortable.” 

“It’s no use my seeing him, Masham,” said 
Eleanor. The maid was fixing the diamonds 
in her hair. “I couldn’t do him any good. 
And I have perfect confidence in you, as you 
know. I am late as it is.” 

She rose as she spoke, and her maid 
brought forward her cloak. 

“I’ll go,” said Philip, and followed the 
nurse along the passage. He was passion- 
ately fond of his boy, a fine little fellow, full 
of life and spirits, who had never yet known 
a day’s illness. It was some time before he 
returned. Mary came into the room during 
his absence, and stood talking to her sister. 
She was well dressed, and looked almost 
handsome. 

“The child is very ill,” said Philip ab- 
ruptly. “You had better send round and 
order the carriages not to come.” 

“What for?” asked Eleanor, raising her 
eyebrows. 


THE LARCHESTER BALL 123 


“What for? You surely would not think 
of going off to a ball, and leaving him?” 

“My dear Philip,” impatiently, “if you 
wanted a model of all the domestic virtues, 
you should have married Sissy. Go? — of 
course I shall go. I have a new dress from 
Doucet, and I mean to show it.” 

“Then I shall remain behind.” 

“Do,” said Eleanor scoffingly. “I have 
no doubt Mr. Blake will be most happy to 
take your place.” 

This hit Philip on a sensitive point. Mr. 
Blake was a handsome young Irishman 
whom Eleanor had picked up during the sea- 
son, and who had been her constant shadow 
ever since. 

“If you 'will go,” he said irresolutely, “I 
suppose I must go with you. But I entreat 
you to reconsider it.” 

“I shall do nothing of the kind. What 
do you suppose our guests would say?” 

“You can let them go without you.” 

“No, thank you! Just for some nonsense 
of Masham’s! What does one pay a nurs® 


124 THE LARCHESTER BALL 


for, I should like to know? It is her business 
to look after the child.” 

“Look here, Phihp,” interposed Mary 
good-naturedly, “would you hke me to stay 
with him? I don’t care about the ball, and 
if it would make you easier — ” 

“I wish you would, Mary,” exclaimed 
Philip gratefully. “It is awfully good of 
you. You’re fond of the boy, I know.” 

“Indeed I am,” answered Mary simply. 

The first person on whom Philip’s eyes 
fell when he entered the ballroom was Sissy, 
standing at a little distance, talking to the 
Lord Lieutenant of the county. It was the 
first time he had seen her since their part- 
ing. He changed color and made a step 
forward, then recollected himself and turned 
away. 

“Do you want to go and speak to your old 
love?” asked Eleanor with a smile. “Do. 
I shan’t be jealous.” 

And, putting her hand on Mr. Blake’s 
shoulder, she was instantly whirled away. 
Philip took no part in the dancing. He was 


THE LARCHESTER BALL 125 


too uneasy. Leaning against a column, he 
watched gloomily his wife revolving in the 
arms of the different officers of the regiment. 
Eleanor looked magnificent; her beauty 
eclipsed easily that of every other woman in 
the room. Her dress, a wonderful creation 
of French art, fitted her like the skin of a 
snake. The Leigh diamonds sparkled in her 
hair and on her breast, and round her neck 
she wore a string of pearls that cost a small 
fortune. Toward the middle of the evening 
a note was brought to Philip in Mary’s hand- 
writing. He tore it open, turning almost 
green as he read, and hurried off in pursuit 
of Eleanor, who had stopped to rest at the 
further end of the room. 

“You must come at once,” he uttered 
hoarsely. “The child is dying.” 

And, thrusting the note into her hand, he 
rushed out of the room. Two lines were 
hastily scribbled in pencil: 

“The doctor has no hope. Do not delay 
if you would see him alive.” 


126 THE LARCHESTER BALL 


The note dropped from Eleanor’s fingers, 
and she put out her hands as though to ward 
off a blow. For once even she was stag- 
gered. Her partner thought she was going 
to faint, and was filled with indignant pity. 

“What a brute!” he thought. “Fancy 
telling her hke that. The child’s own 
mother!” 

And aloud: 

“Dear Lady Leigh, you must not lose 
heart. While there is life there is hope. It 
may not be as bad as they say.” 

“Indeed,” faltered Eleanor, her eyes fill- 
ing with tears, “I had no idea — ” 

“Of course you had not,” he interrupted. 
“Let me get you a glass of water. You are 
as white as a sheet!” 

Philip was standing at the door of the 
cloak-room, waiting for his wife when Sissy 
came up to him. 

“Philip,” she exclaimed, holding out her 
hands, “I have just heard. I am so sorry. 
Your dear little boy.” 


THE L ARCHESTER BALL 127 


Before he could answer, Charlie appeared 
on the scene, his face like a thundercloud. 

“Sissy,” he said, “the carriage is. wait- 
ing.” 

And he almost dragged her away. 

“How dare you, Sissy,” he began fu- 
riously, directly they were outside the door. 
“How dare you speak to him!” 

“Hush, Charlie,” said Sissy with dignity. 
“You don’t know what you are talking 
about. His child is dying!” 

“Serves him right! No,” checking him- 
self, “I don’t mean that. But it is not for 
you. Sissy, to console him.” 

Sissy made no reply. She was not going 
to discuss the point. She had followed the 
impulse of her heart, and she did not care 
what any one thought of her action. She 
leaned back in the carriage, her heart aching 
with pity for the man who had treated her so 
badly. Charlie’s anger gradually cooled ; as 
they turned in at the lodge gates, he stooped 
forward and kissed her. 


128 THE LARCHESTER BALL 


“Forgive me. Sissy,” he said. “It was for 
your sake I was angry.” 

“Yes, I know, Charlie,” she said, return- 
ing his embrace. 

And peace was restored between them. 


CHAPTER X 

ANOTHER MANIFESTATION OF THE SCARLET 
LADY 

S IR Philip and Lady Leigh returned to 
their home in silence, Philip looking out 
of the opposite window. His wife’s heart- 
lessness had disgusted him. They reached 
the house, where the doors stood open to re- 
ceive them. Mary met them on the stairs, 
her eyes swollen with weeping. 

“Not there,” as Philip made a step toward 
the nursery. “Come in here.” 

She opened the door of Eleanor’s boudoir. 
“But I want to see my boy!” he exclaimed. 
Mary’s eyes filled again with tears. 

“Oh, Philip!” she said, with a look of in- 
finite compassion. “It is too late. He died 
an hour ago in my arms !” 

Philip flung himself into a chair, and 
129 


130 ANOTHER MANIFESTATION 


sobbed aloud. Eleanor stood as if turned to 
stone. 

“How did it happen?” she asked at last. 

“The doctor was out. We waited and 
waited. Masham tried everything she could 
think of. He got worse and worse. At last 
the doctor came. When he set eyes on the 
child, he said, Tt is too late. There is noth- 
ing to be done.’ I sent off for jmu at once, 
but by the time the messenger reached you 
he must have breathed his last.” 

There was a long silence, broken only by 
Philip’s sobs. At last he rose. 

“Take me to him,” he said, “I want to see 
him once more.” 

“Will you come, Eleanor?” asked her sis- 
ter. 

“No, thank you,” returned Eleanor with 
a shudder. “I know you both look on me 
as a sort of murderess. I will go to my 
room.” 

She moved toward the door. On the 
threshold she paused and cast an appealing 
look at her husband. He did not stir. 


ANOTHER MANIFESTATION 131 


“Go to her, Philip,” whispered Mary. 
“She wants you.” 

“No,” he answered gloomily. “She left 
my boy to die alone.” 

Does death ever draw people nearer to- 
gether, I wonder? Far more often it brings 
estrangement. During the month that fol- 
lowed their child’s death, the bereaved par- 
ents drifted farther and farther apart. 
Philip shut himself up in the hbrary, where 
he spent hours, recalling every look and ges- 
ture of his lost boy. At last Eleanor grew 
seriously alarmed. Was she going to lose 
her hold on Philip altogether? That would 
never do. 

To say that Eleanor was not shocked by 
her child’s death would be untrue; cold and 
selfish as she was, she was not yet utterly 
hardened. She had been proud of the boy. 
For one thing he was the heir, the future Sir 
Philip Leigh. Her personal importance 
was diminished by his death. The estate 
was strictly entailed, and if she had no other 
son it would go to a distant cousin when 


132 ANOTHER MANIFESTATION 


Philip died. She felt, too, as keenly as it 
was in her to feel anything, her husband’s 
attitude toward her. He scarcely spoke to 
her, and when she addressed him answered 
her in monosyllables. Every time he looked 
at her he seemed to see her dancing at the 
very hour when her child lay dead. 

This state of things must not be allowed 
to go on. She had won him once in the teeth 
of every obstacle; surely she could win him 
back again. It would require some skill ; the 
part she had enacted then would not now be 
suitable. But she had confidence in her own 
powers ; she knew every chord of the instru- 
ment on which she proposed to play. There 
are two natures in man, the higher and the 
lower, warring against each other, as St. 
Paul tells us. Sissy’s influence had roused a 
latent nobility in Philip, but Eleanor ap- 
pealed to his baser instincts. He had de- 
teriorated much in the two years of his mar- 
ried life. 

Philip was sitting as usual alone in the 
library. The day was drawing to a close. 


ANOTHER MANIFESTATION 138 


and the shadows lay dark and heavy in the 
corners of the room. His face was buried in 
his hands, and he was thinking sadly and re- 
gretfully of the past. What had he gained 
by the indulgence of his mad passion? Es- 
trangement from his mother, the loss of his 
old friends. Was it the punishment of 
Heaven that had overtaken him? 

Ah, no, that surely would not have fallen 
on his innocent child! What a sweet im- 
pulse had brought Sissy to his side in his 
hour of sorrow ! There was no guile, no bit- 
terness in her tender spirit. Fool that he 
had been to exchange pure gold for dross ! 

A knock at the door. He started. 

“Who is it?” he demanded. 

“It is I, Eleanor.” 

“What do you want?” 

“I wish to speak to you. Let me in.” 

Unwillingly he crossed the room and un- 
locked the door. His wife stood on the 
threshold in her deep mourning, very pale, 
her eyes reddened as though she had been 
weeping. 


134 ANOTHER MANIFESTATION 


“Philip,” she said, “why will you sit and 
grieve alone? Is not your sorrow mine? 
Let us mingle our tears together.” 

“Your tears!” he uttered bitterly. “How 
many have you shed, I wonder?” 

“More than you think,” she replied. 
“But not where I should have shed them — in 
my husband’s arms.” 

Philip moved imeasily in his chair. 

“I know,” she went on, pursuing her ad- 
vantage. “You think that because I do not 
realize things beforehand I have no feehng. 
Do you think I did not feel it, when, on the 
night that our child died, you turned your 
back upon me — his mother?” 

He did not answer. His wife looked at 
him steadily for a moment, then threw her- 
self into a chair and burst into tears. 

“You do not care for me,” she sobbed. 
“Your love has grown cold — oh! why did I 
listen to you? Why did I'not let you marry 
Sissy? You would have been happier with 
her than with me.” 

“Upon my soul, Eleanor!” cried Philip, 


ANOTHER MANIFESTATION 135 


starting up. He stopped short, remember- 
ing his thoughts of a while ago. 

Eleanor was watching him from under her 
narrowed eyelids. 

“You see,” she said, “you can not deny it. 
You regret her — you have ceased to care for 
me — and I, unhappy woman that I am! 
Why did I love you? Why did I ever cross 
your path?” 

She covered her face with her hands. 
Philip was deeply disturbed. She had 
turned the tables and put him completely in 
the wrong. Poor Eleanor! He had mis- 
judged her. She loved him, after all. 
He paced the room for a few minutes in 
silence; then he suddenly stopped beside her 
chair. 

“Eleanor,” he said entreatingly, “don’t. 
I can not bear to see you cry.” 

“How can I help it,” she murmured, 
“when you are so unkind?” 

“But I am not — I will not be unkind any 
more.” 

She raised her head; then, with a sudden 


136 ANOTHER MANIFESTATION 


movement, she flung her arms round his 
neck. 

“Kiss me, Phihp,” she whispered, and he 
obeyed. 

Her cause was won. Half an hour later 
she came out of the library, leaving Philip 
to interview his bailiff. It was growing 
dark, and the figures of the knights in armor 
looked grim and ghostly in the hall. She 
had forgotten a book in the conservatory, 
and opened the dining-room door to pass 
through. Here it was lighter; the room 
faced west, and a red hght still lingered in 
the sky from the sun which had just gone 
down. It shone full on Eleanor’s portrait 
over the mantel-piece. She looked at it with 
an expression of satisfaction blended with 
triumph. 

“Rather more ornamental, I flatter my- 
self,” she said aloud, “than the daub that was 
here before. The idea of their being influ- 
enced so long by that rubbishly old predic- 
tion! The thing was a perfect eyesore,” 

But while she gazed, a strange thing hap- 


ANOTHER MANIFESTATION 137 


pened. A sort of faint glow began to over- 
spread the picture; it deepened and deep- 
ened till the whole dress seemed bathed in 
scarlet. It seemed as though something be- 
hind were trying to force its way through the 
canvas. The eyes grew like red-hot coals, 
the lips were wreathed in a baleful smile. It 
was no longer Eleanor’s portrait, but that of 
the Scarlet Lady. 

Eleanor uttered a faint scream, and hid 
her face in her hands. When at last she ven- 
tured to look up, the strange appearance 
had vanished. The light had faded out of 
the sky, the room looked cold and gray, and 
her own portrait, unchanged smiled down 
from the wall in all its haughty consciousness 
of beauty. 

“It must have been my fancy,” she mut- 
tered. “The reflection from the sunset.” 

But she left the room hurriedly, without 
looking round. Such fancies were not good 
to have. 


CHAPTER XI 
LADY Leigh’s death 

S PRING is late in the North, with long cold 
days and hard frosts at night. Wild 
gales come sweeping over the sea, and, 
passing over Wharton Hall in its sheltered 
hollow, beat against the little wood at the 
top of the hill where the trees, twisted and 
stunted as they are, and growing all to one 
side, have yet withstood their fury so many 
years. Bending to everj’^ blast, they still 
interpose a barrier that breaks the force of 
the wind and gives shelter to the country be- 
yond. Blown about by the wind, her hair 
ruffled and her cheeks aglow. Sissy came into 
the morning-room with a breath of fresh air, 
her arms full of flowers for the chapel, and 
stopped short as she caught sight of her 
grandmother’s face. 

“What is it, granny?” she asked. “Is 
anything wrong?” 


138 


LADY LEIGH’S DEATH 139 


“Have you seen the paper. Sissy?” asked 
Mrs. Wharton. 

“No — why? Is there anything in it?” 

“I am afraid it wiU grieve you, my darling. 
Lady Leigh is dead!” 

Sissy sat down suddenly, hut did not 
speak. The flowers fell unheeded to the 
ground. Dead! Never to see her again, 
never to break the silence between them. 
Oh, if she had but spoken sooner! And now 
it was too late. The irrevocableness of 
death is terrible to the young. The future 
is full of possibilities to them. Anything 
may happen in life. But death ! 

“How did she die, granny?” she asked 
presently. “Does it say?” 

“Suddenly — at her residence in Hertford 
Street, Mayfair. There are no details. It 
is just a short notice.” 

Sissy said no more. After a while she got 
up and went to her own room. She felt she 
must be alone, to try to realize what had hap- 
pened. Her heart was full of unavailing re- 
gret. Why had she never written? It 


140 LADY LEIGH’S DEATH 


seemed so easy now to have done so, and 
yet at the time she had found it impossi- 
ble. What had kept her back? Not pride, 
surely. No, she had never felt that where 
Lady Leigh was concerned. 

A step came along the passage, and a 
knock at the door. 

“Who is there?” she called out, impatient 
at being disturbed. Could they not leave her 
in peace to mourn her dead? 

“It is I, Sissy,” came her grandmother’s 
voice in reply, and she hastened to unlock the 
door. 

“Oh, granny,” said Sissy reproachfully, 
kneeling by her side as the old lady sank into 
a chair, breathless with the effort of mount- 
ing the stairs. “Why didn’t you send for 
me? You shouldn’t have come up.” 

“I had to — I couldn’t let any one else — 
Sissy, I don’t know how to tell you — Philip 
is here, and asks to see you.” 

Sissy sprang to her feet, and the color 
rushed over her face. 

“Granny! What does it mean?” 


LADY LEIGH’S DEATH 141 


“He has a message for you, I think, from 
his mother. But if it hurts you to see him, 
my darling, I will send him away.” 

“No, no, we can not do that. But wait a 
minute.” 

She put her hand to her heart, as though 
to control its beating. The color had left 
her cheek, and she was very pale. 

“A glass of water, dear?” said her grand- 
mother anxiously, but she shook her head. 

“I am all right, granny. It was the sur- 
prise — and the shock. Where is he?” 

“In the library.” 

Sissy descended the stairs. Outside the 
library door she paused a moment to gather 
sti’ength for the interview before her. 
Philip was standing by the window, with his 
back turned. How often had she found him 
like that, and stolen upon him from behind! 
He turned. A feeling of suffocation came 
over her, and the room swam before her eyes. 
Then the mist cleared, and she saw him com- 
ing toward her. 

“It is kind of you to see me,” he said 


142 LADY LEIGH’S DEATH 


gently. “I would not have ventured to ask, 
but I bring you a message from my mother.” 

“WiU you not sit down?” asked Sissy, her- 
self scarcely able to stand. 

He took a seat at a little distance. She 
noticed with a pang how pale and ill he 
looked. 

“Tell me about her,” she said, and he 
obeyed. 

“She was ill only a few hours. They tele- 
graphed for me, and I got there in time to 
see her alive. She spoke of you. Sissy. 
She sent you this ring and said, ‘Tell her I 
always loved her, and ask her to forgive you 
for my sake.’ ” 

Sissy was weeping bitterly. 

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “She need not have 
said that. I forgave you, Philip, long ago.” 

“And we are friends?” 

“Always — whenever you want me.” 

She stretched out her hand. He took it 
and held it a moment, then let it fall. 

“They say,” he said abruptly, “that you 
are going to marry Maxwell. Is it true?” 


LADY LEIGH’S DEATH 143 


Sissy colored, and cast down her eyes. 

“No,” she answered in a low tone. 

“I am glad of that. I should have lost 
you. Sissy, altogether.” 

Neither he nor Sissy noticed the selfishness 
of this avowal. He had spoiled her life so 
far; he was doing his best to spoil it still. 
He rose to take leave. Then, with a little 
hesitation: 

“The funeral is to-morrow. Sissy. Will 
you come?” 

“I should like to. At what time?” 

“Eleven o’clock, at Langton.” 

“I will be there,” she promised, and he left 
the room. Sissy sank into a chair, feeling 
stunned and stupefied. Had Philip really 
been there? in that very room? It seemed 
like a dream. She had thought the last link 
between them broken by his mother’s death, 
and now that death seemed to have consti- 
tuted a fresh claim upon her. He had lost 
his best friend, poor Philip! Who could 
say? He might need her help some day — 
and if the time came she would not fail him. 


CHAPTER XII 


“fifty thousand horse and foot going 
TO TABLE bay” 

S issy mourned her dead friend truly and 
deeply. Charlie made no comment 
when she put on a black dress, but he felt 
that Maxwell had no luck. Just when she 
seemed to be getting over it, came first the 
boy’s death, and then Lady Leigh’s, to re- 
awaken her interest in Philip. It was all so 
useless. Her youth was being wasted, and 
all for the sake of a man who had not known 
how to value her, and who now selfishly ab- 
sorbed her thoughts to the exclusion of the 
one who would have given all he possessed 
to make her happy. 

Spring deepened into autumn, and rumors 
of war were gradually gathering strength. 
The air was full of anticipation. Ever since 
the Jameson raid the country had faced the 
probability of trouble. Negotiations were 

144 


“FIFTY THOUSAND HORSE” 145 


still going on, but half-heartedly, and both 
sides were secretly preparing. Troops were 
being drafted out in small detachments, so 
as not to excite suspicion. All through the 
summer and early autumn, people were 
watching and waiting. And then, one fine 
morning in October, Sissy, coming home 
from the village, where she had been to visit 
a sick child, saw Charlie standing on the 
terrace. He waved to her, and she quick- 
ened her steps. 

“Great news. Sissy,” he called out directly 
she came within hearing. “It has come at 
last. War is declared. The regiment is or- 
dered to the front.” 

His face was flushed with excitement. 
She uttered a little cry. 

“Oh, Charlie, when?” 

“This day week.” 

“So soon?” 

“There is no time to be lost. We are 
wanted out there. Why, Sis,” passing his 
arm round her as he saw she trembled. 
“You, a soldier’s daughter!” 


146 “FIFTY THOUSAND HORSE 


“My father died in battle. Why did you 
remind me! If I were to lose you, too!” 

“Cheer up, old lady,” kissing her, “I shall 
live to plague you yet. Well smash up the 
Boers in no time, and eat our Christmas din- 
ner in Pretoria.” 

“I hope so,” said Sissy, but without con- 
viction. 

“Maxwell is here,” continued Charlie. “I 
sent him in to break it to the others. What 
a good fellow he is. Sissy. I wish you could 
care for him.” 

“I wish I could.” 

“Why can’t you?” 

She was silent. 

“Do you mean to say you care for that 
fellow still?” 

A painful flush overspread her face. 

“I wonder at you. Sissy,” exclaimed 
Charlie bitterly. “I thought you had more 
pride. Do you think it is pleasant for me 
to know that people are pitying my sister be- 
cause she can not get over being jilted by Sir 
Philip Leigh?” 


“FIFTY THOUSAND HORSE” 147 


Sissy’s eyes flashed. 

“You have no right to speak to me like 
that, Charlie,” she said indignantly. She 
was turning away, but he caught hold of her 
hand. 

“Don’t let us quarrel. Sissy,” he pleaded. 
“We have no time for that. How can I 
help being vexed? Are you going to remain 
an old maid on Leigh’s account?” 

“Better that than marrying a man I do 
not love.” 

“But you would get to love him,” he per- 
sisted. “A good woman always loves her 
husband.” 

A trite old theory! Sissy shook her head. 

“No, Charlie, it would not do. We 
should both he wretched. I am very sorry. 
It is not my fault.” 

“I am not so sure of that. If Leigh had 
not come along, you would have married 
Maxwell.” 

“Perhaps. But it is too late now.” 

“You might at least say something nice 
to him before he goes,” urged Charlie. “He 


148 “FIFTY THOUSAND HORSE’ 


is awfully cut up at saying good-by to 
you.” 

“There is the luncheon bell,” exclaimed 
Sissy, glad to escape further argximent, and 
Charlie followed her into the hall. 

Maxwell came forward to greet her. He 
had performed his task as gently as possible, 
but Mrs. Wharton’s hands were trembling as 
she strove to knit, and the Squire was walk- 
ing up and down with short, uneven steps 
and a perturbed look on his face. Charlie 
sat down by his grandmother and possessed 
himself of her hand, knitting and all. 

“We shall soon be back, granny dear,” he 
said, “covered with glory.” 

Maxwell was not so sanguine. He knew 
the country and the people. 

“The Boer is a tough customer,” he said. 
“He will take some beating. But we shall 
win in the end, of course.” 

The Squire said nothing. His thoughts 
had gone back many years, to the day on 
which he saw his brave young son setting out 
like Charlie, full of life and spirits, for the 


“FIFTY THOUSAND HORSE” 149 


campaign from which he was never to re- 
turn. 

“Dear grandpapa,” whispered Sissy, pass- 
ing her hand through his arm, “God will take 
care of him.” 

“Yes, child, yes,” he answered, “but God’s 
ways are not always our ways.” 

At luncheon, however, he roused himself 
and discussed the situation with Maxwell, 
who had already been out in South Africa. 
Despite his age he took a keen interest in 
current events, and was always up to date. 

“I wish we had a better cause,” he said. 
“That Jameson raid has put us in the 
wrong.” 

“Well, grand, we are in for it now, and 
must make the best of it,” exclaimed Charlie, 
looking as though he thoroughly enjoyed the 
prospect. “You don’t expect the British 
Empire to climb down before a couple of 
beggarly little states.” 

“Our hand has been forced, sir,” said 
Maxwell; “the Boers meant to fight all 
along.” 


150 “FIFTY THOUSAND HORSE’ 


“And I suppose we did, too,” said Mr. 
Wharton. “The lust for gold is at the bot- 
tom of it all.” 

After luncheon the two young men went 
out on the terrace to smoke. Sissy joined 
them after a while, and, mindful of Charlie’s 
words, invited Maxwell to take a turn with 
her through the gardens. He accepted with 
alacrity. They passed through the shrub- 
beries, and Sissy opened a little wicket gate, 
through which they emerged on a forest of 
ferns, some of them over six feet in height, 
with green paths intersecting them in differ- 
ent directions. In old days deer used to 
nestle amid the bracken, and, though they 
had long been done away with, it would not 
have seemed strange even now to see a stag 
rear its antlered head above the mass of 
green, which was rapidly turning yellow 
with the early night frosts. Below them 
stretched the blue and shining sea, bound- 
ing the horizon, with here and there a soli- 
tary sail dotting its surface. There, in the 
west, lay Ireland, the Emerald Isle, out of 


“FIFTY THOUSAND HORSE” 151 


sight, but present to the imagination. On 
the right, beyond the bay, the misty moun- 
tains of the Lake District rose one behind the 
other in all their poetic loveliness, and be- 
tween lay wood and valley and water, mead- 
ows and broken ground, with a rocky crag 
uplifting its stony brow. This was Sissy’s 
favorite spot; she loved the pure air of the 
moorland, the salt breath of the sea, 
the broad expanse of untrammeled na- 
ture that filled the eye and satisfied the 
mind. 

“Shall we sit down?” she said, and chose a 
mossy seat, while Maxwell found a conven- 
ient boulder and bared his head to the breeze. 
For a while neither spoke. Then Sissy said, 
with a little embarrassment: 

“I have been wanting so much to thank 
you for all you have done for Charlie. It 
has been simply everything to him being 
under you. For Charlie’s sake — ” 

“Is it only for Charlie’s sake. Sissy?” in- 
terrupted Maxwell; and, she tried to stop 
him: “No, let me speak. A man has a right 


152 “FIFTY THOUSAND HORSE” 


to be heard. I have been silent too long. 
If I had spoken sooner — ” 

“It would have made no diflPerence,” said 
Sissy sadly. “But you are right — I will lis- 
ten. It was only to save you pain — ” 

And then he pleaded his cause with a 
warmth and passion of which she had 
thought him incapable. He told her how 
long he had loved her, how for years she had 
been the lode-star of his existence, the cen- 
ter of all his hopes and thoughts. How, 
when another man had won her, he had 
crushed down his pain and put her happiness 
before his own. But now — now that there 
was nothing to part them — 

“Only a memory,” said Sissy with a sigh, 
“but it leaves me nothing to give. I could 
not come to you empty-handed.” 

“Even so. Sissy,” cried Maxwell eagerly. 
“If you would only give me the chance of 
trying to win your love.” 

Her eyes were bent on the ground; her 
face was troubled. 

“Listen to me,” he pleaded. “A man 


FIFTY THOUSAND HORSE” 153 


must think of himself, but I am thinking of 
you, too. You are throwing away the best 
years of your life for the sake of a dream 
of the past. Your grandparents are old; 
in the course of nature, they can not live 
long. Charlie will marry, sooner or later. 
What will you do then. Sissy? You will be 
very lonely. If you would trust yourself to 
me, I would do my utmost to make you 
happy.” 

“I know you would,” said Sissy, much 
troubled. “But it is too one-sided. I 
should only disappoint you.” 

“I would take the risk of that.” 

She lifted her eyes. 

“Look into your own heart. Could you 
forget so easily?” 

“Yes — if the object of my love were un- 
worthy,” he answered firmly. 

“Then men are different from women.” 

A pause. Maxwell shifted his ground. 
He was a soldier, and had studied tactics. 

“Well, Sissy, I will not press you. Per- 
haps it is hardly fair. The chances of war 


154 “FIFTY THOUSAND HORSE” 


are uncertain, and I may not live to return. 
But, if I do, will you let me speak again?” 

Her eyes filled with tears. 

“Oh!” she exclaimed, “you are too gener- 
ous. I can not refuse.” 

“I may write you. Sissy?” 

“Of course.” 

“You will try to like me a httle?” 

“I will — I do — more than you think.” 

“And remember me in your prayers?” 

“When I pray for Charlie, I will think of 
you, too.” 

She gave him her hand, and he raised it 
to his lips. He was not ill-satisfied. He 
had gained more than he had dared to hope. 
She had promised to think of him, she would 
read his letters. It would be hard if he could 
not manage to establish an interest in her 
heart. They retraced their steps in silence, 
but just before they reached the house he 
stopped her. 

“Thank you. Sissy,” he said earnestly. 
“This has made a great difference to me. 
You have given me something to hope for.” 


“FIFTY THOUSAND HORSE” 155 


It was a new Maxwell who spoke, and 
Sissy wondered. There was a hght in his 
eyes and a ring in his voice. He had lost the 
constraint and diffidence which had hitherto 
characterized him in her presence. She be- 
gan to understand why Charlie looked up to 
him and followed him, and felt a new esteem 
for him springing up in her mind. 

All was now bustle and activity. Sissy 
went in to Larchester to spend a few nights 
with the Frasers, and help Charlie with his 
preparations. She spent most of her time 
writing to the Army and Navy Stores. 
The Frasers’ house was close to the barracks, 
and Charlie dashed in at all hours of the day 
with fresh lists of what he required. Mrs. 
Fraser was equally busy, but she and Sissy 
found intervals for conversation, and in one 
of them Sissy told her about her interview 
with Maxwell. She was greatly pleased. 

“He is such a good fellow. Sissy. He de- 
serves his reward.” 

“Do you call me a reward?” asked Sissy, 
smiling. 


156 “FIFTY THOUSAND HORSE’ 


“A very sweet reward for any man,” an- 
swered her friend warmly. “But you do 
like him, Sissy, don’t you?” with a note of 
anxiety in her voice. 

“Very much — very much, indeed. But, 
oh! Margaret, liking is not loving, and it is 
so difficult to forget.” 

“This will make it easier,” said her friend, 
kissing her. 

And Sissy hoped it might. It was time 
she gave up thinking of Philip, who had 
chosen his own life apart from hers. She 
would always be his friend if he wanted one, 
but since his mother’s funeral she had not 
heard from him. Eleanor ruled at Lang- 
ton. She had reduced her husband to a 
cipher, and filled the house with her own 
friends. The county looked on disapprov- 
ingly and held aloof; Lady Leigh’s guests 
were not to its taste. 

Maxwell made no outward sign of any 
understanding between himself and Sissy. 
He had gone back to the formal “Miss 
Wharton,” and behaved as if nothing had 


FIFTY THOUSAND HORSE” 157 


happened. Sissy was grateful for his for- 
bearance. It gave her time to get accus- 
tomed to their changed relations. For, 
though he had left her free, she knew she had 
given him a pledge for the future, and was 
too honest to try to evade it. 

He kept his own counsel where Charlie 
was concerned. He would have dearly liked 
to tell him what would give him so much 
pleasure to hear, but he knew the young 
man’s impetuous nature, and dreaded some 
indiscretion. Charlie’s methods were apt to 
be forcible and direct, and any premature 
jubilation might ruin all. He was treading 
oil very delicate ground. Sissy must not be 
startled or made to feel that she had prom-, 
ised more than she could perform. 

“How is my godson this morning?” asked 
Sissy, coming into the breakfast -room. “I 
thought I heard him screaming a short time 
ago.” 

“He had broken his last new toy,” an- 
swered Mrs. Fraser. “But he says he is 
quite good now.” 


158 “FIFTY THOUSAND HORSE 


“He has powerful lungs,” remarked the 
Colonel, unfolding his newspaper. Then, 
as he glanced down the sheet, he uttered an 
exclamation. 

“What is it?” asked Mrs. Fraser eagerly. 

“Nothing much. The Boers have entered 
Natal on the north and west, and occupied 
Charleston. They are moving on the east 
by Buffalo River. We shall soon come into 
collision. Well, Maggie, I must be off. 
Any commands?” 

“Must you really leave us to-day, Sissy?” 
inquii’ed Mrs. Fraser. 

“Yes, Margaret, I am afraid I must. I 
hear granny has her bronchial cough again, 
and I am anxious about her.” 

“Then Malcolm will take you to the sta- 
tion. You are sure you would rather go by 
train?” 

“Yes, it is more convenient. The car- 
riage will meet me at Carnston. It saves a 
long drive. I have done everything I could 
for Charlie, and you will see to the rest, Mar- 
garet,” 


“FIFTY THOUSAND HORSE” 159 


It was a bright autumn afternoon, and the 
air, though keen, was fresh and exhilarating. 
More than one admiring glance followed 
Sissy as she walked up and down the plat- 
form, with Colonel Fraser’s tall, soldierly 
figure by her side. The train was late, and 
it was too cold to sit down. 

“I shall see you on Friday, Sissy,” said 
the Colonel, “but there will be no time for 
anything then. This is our real good-by, 
and I wanted to ask you to look after Mar- 
garet and the boy if anything goes wrong 
with me.” 

“Of course I will. Colonel Fraser,” said 
Sissy earnestly. “You know how I love 
them both. But you must not think of 
that.” 

“One never knows. I have been in many 
fights, but the pitcher may go once too often 
to the well. That is in God’s hands. But it 
was on my mind to speak to you. You are 
of the same Faith, and she is fond of you. 
I respect her belief, though I can not share 
it. I was brought up in a different school. 


160 “FIFTY THOUSAND HORSE 


If I die I would leave her a free hand with 
the boy.” 

“Oh! Colonel Fraser, would you, really?” 
cried Sissy breathlessly. “What would this 
not be to Margaret?” 

“Mind, not a word of this to her now. If 
I come back I may alter my mind. But she 
would bring him up a Christian and a gentle- 
man, and a man is a fool who thinks he can 
control matters after his death.” 

The train came up, and there was no time 
for more. Colonel Fraser put Sissy into a 
carriage, and wrung her hand. 

“God bless you. Sissy,” he said in a moved 
voice. “You have been a true little friend 
to us. I leave her in good hands.” 

He stood back, and lifted his hat as the 
train moved off. 

When Sissy got back, she found Mrs. 
Wharton better, which was a relief, for she 
had set her heart on seeing her brother off, 
and did not like to leave the old lady ailing. 
Charlie rode over the day before he left, to 
say good-by to his grandparents. His ex- 


FIFTY THOUSAND HORSE” 161 


citement had quieted down, and he was 
rather subdued. 

“I wonder if I shall ever see the dear old 
place again?” he said, gazing round, as he 
stood on the terrace with Sissy, who had 
come out to see him start. 

“Charlie! How can you talk like that?” 

“Well, the Colonel and Maxwell are al- 
ways croaking. They say we English de- 
spise our enemy and will find out our mistake 
too late. There’s one comfort. Sissy. If 
I don’t get it, you will. We are the last of 
the race, and you are as fond of it as I am.” 

“I only care for it for your sake,” said 
Sissy passionately. “I could not bear it 
without you.” 

She went down to Southampton the next 
day to see the last of him. They stayed the 
night at a hotel, which was crowded to over- 
flowing, and had great difficulty in securing 
a private sitting-room which they shared 
with the Frasers. Both Sissy and Margaret 
felt that they could not face the public din- 
ing-room that night. Maxwell joined them 


162 “FIFTY THOUSAND HORSE 


after dinner for a few minutes, but he was 
very busy, and apologized for hurrying 
away. Sissy had no thought for him, or for 
any one but her beloved twin, whom she was 
to lose on the morrow. Colonel and Mrs. 
Fraser retired early, but Charlie and Sissy 
sat up late into the night, her hand clasped in 
his, her head resting on his shoulder. They 
talked at intervals, but for the most part 
kept silence, their hearts too full for speech. 
At last Charlie looked at his watch, and got 
up with a start. 

“We must go to bed. Sissy. You must 
get some sleep before the morning. Come, 
I will.take you to your room.” 

He escorted her along the passage, and 
held her in a tight embrace before he kissed 
her and left her. 

It is a solemn thing to see a transport 
start, laden with troops, many of whom will 
never see their native land again, solemn and 
moving even when there is no one near and 
dear to us on board. But when it bears 
away what we love best in the world, the very 


TIFTY THOUSAND HORSE” 163 


heart seems wrenched out of our bosom. It 
was Maxwell who dragged Charlie away 
from his almost fainting sister, yet it was 
Maxwell who returned a moment later to 
press her hand and murmur in her ear, 
“Courage, Sissy, I will bring him back to 
you.” The great ship weighed anchor and 
steamed slowly away down the harbor, the 
troops drawn up on deck, the bands playing 
“The Girl I Left Behind Me.” Crowds ran 
along the jetty, accompanying them as far 
as they could, hut Sissy and Margaret 
Fraser remained where they were. It was 
only prolonging the agony. Charlie stood 
waving as long as he could distinguish them, 
and the last Sissy saw through her tear- 
dimmed eyes were her brother and the man 
who loved her side by side. Maxwell’s hand 
on Charlie’s shoulder. 


CHAPTER XIII 


THE HARDEST PART 

‘ ‘ T T ERE we are off Madeira,” wrote 
A X Charlie. “Such a lovely spot! I 
wish you could see it, Sissy. But fighting 
is going on, and I am wild to be at it. This 
old snail of a ship is so confoundedly slow. 
Maxwell sends greetings, but will not write 
this time. Indeed, there isn’t mueh to tell 
you, but wait till we get out there ! Every- 
body on board is very fit, and I find I am a 
good sailor, which is a mercy.” 

Margaret Fraser had taken a flat in Lon- 
don, to be near the center of news. She had 
been fortunate enough to find a tenant at 
once for the house at Larehester, and es- 
tablished herself in Kensington on Camp- 
den Hill, where the air was pure and the 
gardens accessible for her boy. They were 
to spend Christmas at Wharton, and Sissy 

164 


THE HARDEST PART 165 


had promised to pay her a visit on her return 
to town. 

It seemed lonely and strange at first in 
the great city, where no one knew or cared 
about her, and she was a unit among mil- 
lions. But soon all personal feeling was 
merged in a passionate sympathy with every 
one belonging to her race. It was enough to 
be English at such a moment. For news 
was coming over the wires — bitter news for 
England. Talana Hill and Elandslaagte, 
victories as costly as any defeat. Then came 
the cruel mistake of Nicholson’s Nek, the loss 
of life, the shame and grief of surrender. 
Margaret broke down when she heard it ; she, 
the daughter and wife of soldiers, knew what 
it meant to the men. Who hoisted the white 
flag was never known, but the men cried 
when they laid down their arms. “We 
would rather have died. Father,” sobbed the 
Fusiliers to their priest. 

It is not my pretension to dwell on the 
events of the war, which have been related by 
so many abler and better informed writers. 


166 THE HARDEST PART 


but to tell how they affected those who had 
the hardest part to bear, the women of Eng- 
land, watching, waiting, and hoping, almost 
despairing at times, while those nearest and 
dearest to them were daily and hourly risk- 
ing their lives. Those were dark days, when 
the English set their teeth hard, while reverse 
after reverse attended our arms, and the 
whole Continent exulted over our mis- 
fortunes. The national spirit was roused. 
Troop after troop of volunteers was formed. 
Lord Lovat’s scouts were raised in the High- 
lands; the Lord Mayor’s offer of City Im- 
perial Volunteers was accepted. Buller had 
asked for 8,000 irregular mounted infantry. 
In every English county men vied with one 
another in offering to serve their country. 
Those who had nothing, cheerfully gave 
themselves; those who were rich, equipped 
contingents, fitted out hospital ships, and 
served as privates in the companies raised on 
their own estate. Nor were the great manu- 
facturers left behind. In addition to their 
huge contributions in food and money, they 


THE HARDEST PART 167 


continued the pay during absence of those 
of their employees who had volunteered, and 
looked after their families if they were killed. 
Two young men were dining at the Troca- 
dero restaurant, one in khaki, on the eve of 
his departure for the war. Dinner over, 
they asked for the hill. It was handed to 
them receipted “with Mr. Lyons’s compli- 
ments, and he could not take anything from 
a gentleman going out to the front.” This 
was one among many instances. Meanwhile 
the foreign papers teemed with abuse, 
Margaret was soon drawn into one of the 
women’s committees formed for sending 
comforts to the sick and wounded, and warm 
clothing to the men in the field, exposed at 
night to the keen air of the veldt after the 
scorching heat of the day. Her time was 
fully occupied, and she made many friends, 
for nothing draws people together like a 
common cause. Her fellow- workers fell un- 
der the spell of her beauty and tender, gra- 
cious womanhood, and, unknown to herself, 
she soon exercised a considerable influence. 


168 THE HARDEST PART 


due partly to her Scotch common sense and 
the praetical knowledge whieh she brought 
to bear on the matters in hand. 

Letters now began to arrive from the seat 
of war, eagerly read and fondly treasured. 
The Colonel had written on landing, and 
again, a week later, when they were sent up 
to join Buller’s force for the relief of Lady- 
smith. 

“We are sitting in front of the Tugela,” 
wrote Charlie to Sissy, “the Lord knows for 
how long. Slow and sure spells Buller. 
He is not going to take any risks. But it 
makes one rather mad.” 

A pause — then in rapid suceession the 
news of three battles — three disasters — Mag- 
ersfontein, Stormberg, Colenso. In one 
week three crushing blows to British prestige 
in South Africa ! Margaret and Sissy trem- 
bled as they read the long list of killed and 
wounded, but the names they feared to find 
were not there. Lord Roberts’s only son 
had fallen in a gallant attempt to save the 
guns. It was England’s dark hour. The 


THE HARDEST PART 169 


old Queen, broken-hearted over her coun- 
try’s misfortunes, sent for Roberts and 
Kitchener. 

On the eighteenth of December, Lord 
Roberts was appointed Commander-in-Chief 
of the forces, and Kitchener his chief of statf . 
People began to hope that the tide would 
turn. A few small successes put heart into 
the men. Buller was gathering up strength 
for a fresh attempt to relieve Ladysmith, and 
a long line of transports stretching south- 
ward toward Africa was steadily pouring re- 
inforcements into the country. 


CHAPTER XIV 

CHRISTMAS AT WHARTON 



FEW days before Christmas Margaret 


•aJL and her boy arrived at Wharton, to be 
warmly welcomed by Sissy, who had found 
life rather dull, with no one of her own age 
to speak to. She was sincerely attached to 
her grandparents, but they were at the op- 
posite poles of existence, and, with Charlie 
away, and no visitors to break the monotony, 
she often found time hang heavy on her 
hands. Everything was changed by the ad- 
vent of Margaret and her child. He was a 
bonny baby, just two years old, with brown 
eyes and tightly curling flaxen hair. It was 
pleasant and strange to hear the old house 
re-echo with childish cries and laughter. 
Everybody made much of him, and the old 
Squire was his devoted slave. It was funny 
to see them trotting about together, the child 
holding tightly to the old man’s forefinger 


170 


CHRISTMAS AT WHARTON 171 


and chattering away in baby language, not 
always easy to understand. Margaret set- 
tled down at once into the ways of the house, 
with a restful feeling. The atmosphere was 
so calm and peaceful, and she loved the quiet 
little chapel, to which she used to steal away 
unobserved to say her prayers. Sometimes 
Sissy, coming in for the same purpose, found 
her there, her beautiful face aglow with de- 
votion, and longed to tell her of the Colonel’s 
words. But she could not betray his con- 
fidence, and, after all, the child was so 
young; he was all his mother’s at present. 

The two friends were very happy together, 
each busy with her own work. Margaret 
had much correspondence in connection 
with her committee, and spent most of the 
morning writing, while Sissy came in and out 
in the intervals of her domestic duties. 

“What is it. Sissy, dear?” asked Margaret, 
looking up and catching sight of her friend’s 
troubled face. 

The post had just come in, and Sissy held 
an open letter in her hand. 


172 CHRISTMAS AT WHARTON 


“It is from Bernard Maxwell. Oh! Mar- 
garet, I wonder if I have done right. 
He cares for me so much. It frightens 
me.” 

Margaret laid down her pen. 

“I wonder if it would help you. Sissy, if 
I told you a little about myself. I was not 
in love with Malcolm when I married him. 
He was a brother-officer of my father’s, and 
when I knew him first I never thought of 
him in any other light. I was a dreamy, 
romantic girl, an only child, and motherless, 
and over head and ears in love with a man 
whom I thank God from the bottom of my 
heart that I was not permitted to marry. 
He had a charm no woman could resist, and, 
to do him justice, I think he cared for me 
as much as it was in him to care for any one. 
But he was utterly worthless, and mercifully 
I found it out before it was too late. I could 
not believe it at first, but it was made too 
clear for doubt. Our engagement was 
broken off, and I was very ill — so ill they did 
not think I could recover. Just as I began 


CHRISTMAS AT WHARTON 173 


to get better, my father died, very suddenly, 
and left Maleokn my guardian. I was 
alone in the world, with no near relatives or 
friends. Malcolm took me to stay with an 
old aunt of his at Edinburgh, but I was not 
very happy. She was not aceustomed to 
young people, and had fidgety ways; and, 
though I tried my best, I found her hard to 
please. Malcolm saw it — he used to pay me 
flying visits, to see how I was getting on — 
and one day he asked me if I could put up 
with a man old enough to be my father. I 
was taken by surprise, but he had been so 
good to me I could not bear to give him pain, 
and I consented. Little by httle I learned 
to love him, and now,” her eyes shining, “I 
could say, with Shakespeare, ‘Down on your 
knees and thank Heaven, fasting, for a good 
man’s love.’ ” 

She ceased. It had cost her something to 
draw the veil from the past, even to Sissy, 
but if her own experience, bitter as it had 
been, could save her friend from making a 
mistake, she would not hesitate. 


174 CHRISTMAS AT WHARTON 


“Thank you, Margaret,” said Sissy at 
length. “It is good of you to tell me.” 

But she was not convinced. She knew 
that Margaret was happy in her marriage, 
and the Colonel was a good man. But you 
could not compare this calm alfection, 
founded on esteem and duty, with the spon- 
taneous, involuntary surrender of the heart 
“unasked, unsought,” which it thrilled her 
even now to remember. Yet, after all, most 
people have to be content with a second best, 
and why should she be more fortunate than 
the rest? 

The next day was Christmas eve. Sissy 
and Margaret were busy all the morning, 
preparing the crib and decorating the altar 
with flowers. For they were to have mid- 
night Mass, a great privilege, granted to the 
family because the Squire had built the 
church in the village. The crib was a great 
joy to little Cecil Fraser. He wanted to 
have the Bambino to play with, but Mar- 
garet explained to him that he must only 
look, not touch. The priest arrived in the 


CHRISTMAS AT WHARTON 175 


afternoon to hear confessions — a delicate- 
looking young man, with a cough, who found 
the Northern winters trying. But Margaret 
thought he had the face of a saint as he knelt 
at the altar for a few moments of prayer 
and recollection before going into the con- 
fessional. 

They dined rather earlier than usual, and 
after dinner the old people retired to rest for 
two or three hours. But Sissy and Mar- 
garet preferred to sit up. They read and 
worked, and said the rosary together, and 
were at hand in case anything should be 
wanted. At nine o’clock the priest’s sister 
arrived, and Sissy went out into the hall to 
greet her. She had been unable to come up 
sooner, having things to see to for the next 
day. She also, by Sissy’s advice, went up to 
rest before the Mass began, and Sissy re- 
joined her friend in the drawing-room. 

“That is a wonderful girl,” she said. 
“She makes all her own dresses — and so well, 
too, you will see — and does all the work of 
the presbytery with a rough girl under her. 


176 CHRISTMAS AT WHARTON 


She was brought up in one of those Belgian 
convents where they teach them all sorts of 
useful things.” 

“Her voice sounded nice, I thought, when 
she was talking to you,” said Margaret. 

“She is — very nice. We are lucky to have 
her. She is a great help to me. She knows 
all about everything and everybody. It is 
rather touching. She came up here to look 
after her brother, who is not at all strong. 
Their father has married again, and they are 
the only two of the first family. She is de- 
voted to him.” 

Sissy was again summoned away, and 
Margaret took up a book that lay on the 
table, containing a number of quaint old- 
fashioned prints of the country-houses be- 
longing to the Catholic gentry throughout 
England. She was soon absorbed in its 
perusal. 

“You can not think. Sissy,” she exclaimed, 
looking up as her friend came in and knelt 
by her side, “how all this interests me. You 
are accustomed to it, of course, but to me it is 


CHRISTMAS AT WHARTON 177 


wonderful to be here, in the midst of this old 
Catholic family which has kept the Faith 
and continued the old traditions through 
ages of persecution and now through worse 
than persecution, the indifference and want 
of belief of modern times. Don’t you feel 
it an honor to belong to it?” 

“Of course I do, Margaret. But, as you 
say, I am accustomed to it. Not that I feel 
it any the less for that, but it is deeper 
down.” 

“Beyond expression,” said Margaret 
softly. “Yes, I understand that.” 

A little before midnight the bell began to 
ring out over the silent country. Snow lay 
thickly on the ground without, but it was 
beautifully warm in the chapel, where the 
little band of worshipers gathered together 
in the middle of the night, to celebrate the 
coming of their Lord. It was all new to 
Margaret; she had never assisted at mid- 
night Mass before, and followed everything 
with the closest attention. The priest came 
in and Mass began, a Low Mass, but at the 


178 CHRISTMAS AT WHARTON 


Offertory the strains of the Adeste Fideles 
floated out on the air. 

“What a beautiful voice — hke an angel’s!” 
whispered Margaret, entranced. “Who is 
it?” 

“Miss Matheson, the priest’s sister,” an- 
swered Sissy under her breath. 

Mass over, Sissy remained for a while on 
her knees, her face buried in her hands ; then, 
rising, led the way to the dining-room, where 
hot coffee and chocolate awaited them. She 
presented Miss Matheson to Margaret. 

“But where is Father Matheson?” asked 
Margaret, looking round. “Isn’t he going 
to have anything?” 

“He can not,” answered Sissy. “He has 
to say Mass at the village in the morning.” 

“Another Mass?” 

“Two, one at eight and one at eleven. 
Every priest usually says three Masses on 
Christmas Day.” 

“But it is enough to kill him!” cried Mar- 
garet, horrified. 

Miss Matheson laughed merrily. 


CHRISTMAS AT WHARTON 179 


“Oh, no! Our priests are accustomed to 
that. What would the poor country people 
do without their Mass? He has gone to rest 
now, and Mrs. Wharton is kind enough to 
send us back in the carriage.” 

Margaret felt with humility that though 
she had been three years a Catholic, she still 
had much to learn. 

Christmas Day passed quietly at Whar- 
ton. Most people’s thoughts were busy with 
the absent, and wondering what sort of 
Christmas cheer they were having out there. 

“They say Buller feeds his men well,” ob- 
served Margaret, “and that is why they fol- 
low him so willingly. The way to a man’s 
heart, you know, Mrs. Wharton. But I 
must say I have always thought it must be 
extra hard to fight on an empty stomach.” 

The formation of the Imperial Yeomanry 
had been announced, and many young men 
on the estate had enlisted the previous day, 
and were following “Mr. Charlie” to the 
wars, with no lack of generous gifts from the 
Squire and his wife, to help them on their 


180 CHRISTMAS AT WHARTON 


way. This threw a shadow over the usual 
Christmas festivities. But if the older peo- 
ple took their pleasure quietly, it was a field- 
day for Margaret’s boy, who got presents all 
round, and was allowed to have his mid-day 
dinner downstairs and tea in the drawing- 
room. Here he sat surrounded by his toys, 
and shghtly out of hand, as his nurse found 
when she came to summon him to bed. 

“Now, Master Cecil, dear,” she began, but 
he turned his back on her. 

“Baby busy,” he said in an important 
voice, arranging his toys. 

“Baby, dear, go at once when Nannie calls 
you,” said Margaret. 

Her soft voice was not raised, but the child 
scrambled obediently to his feet, and went 
round, saying good night to every one. 

“By George!” said the Squire, as the door 
closed behind him. “You have trained him 
well. Military disciphne already.” 

“Don’t you think I am right?” asked Mar- 
garet anxiously. “It will save him so much 


CHRISTMAS AT WHARTON 181 


trouble in the future if he learns to obey with- 
out argument.” 

“Quite right. But how do you manage 
to do it? For the young man has a will of 
his own.” 

“He knows I mean what I say.” 


CHAPTER XV: 

SPION KOP 

S issy went up to London with Margaret at 
the beginning of January. She found 
the little Kensington flat very pleasant. It 
was high up, but there was an elevator, and 
the view was delightful. She could see 
right over the south of London, with the dif- 
ferent towers and churches standing out like 
landmarks. It was like a doll’s house after 
Wharton, but the rooms were daintily fur- 
nished and very cozy. Not long after her 
arrival she got a letter from Maxwell, writ- 
ten on the eve of the Battle of Colenso. 

“We are in front of Colenso and give bat- 
tle to-morrow. You will know long before 
you get this what has happened. I am not 
very hopeful, but it will be a comfort to be 
doing something. Day after day we hear 
182 


SPION KOP 


183 


the guns from Ladysmith calling to us for 
help. The difficulties are enormous; the 
Boers hold every position. But the General 
will never give up till he has accomplished 
his task.” 

It was very exciting to be in London after 
the quiet of Wharton. Sissy grew to un- 
derstand how people loved the great city, 
with its teeming pulse of life. News was 
coming all day long. They seemed to be liv- 
ing in the midst of the war. Directly any 
fresh event occurred, pink and green papers 
appeared, fluttering along the street, damp 
from the press, and were eagerly bought up 
by the hurrying passers-by, each occupied 
with his own business, yet yielding to the 
master-thought which dominated all. At 
night Sissy used to lie awake, listening to 
the cries of the newspaper hoys in the road 
below, with “Latest news from the front,” 
but Margaret told her it was often incorrect, 
and that it was better to wait for more re- 
liable information in the morning. Coming 
in to breakfast one day on her return from 


184 


SPION KOP 


Mass at the Carmelite church round the cor- 
ner, Sissy found Margaret, the newspaper in 
her hand, in a state of great indignation. 

“Read that,” she exclaimed. “Those in- 
solent papers!” and handed her the sheet. 

Sissy read it, and broke into a ripple of 
laughter. 

“I can’t help it, Margaret. Don’t be 
vexed. But it really is true — and funny. 
‘General Buller has again crossed the Tu- 
gela ; but, with his usual foresight, has taken 
a return ticket.’ ” 

But Margaret refused to be pacified. 

The next day brought a letter from 
Charlie. 

“We are gathering up strength for an- 
other attempt. This time I think we shall 
succeed. It won’t be our fault if we don’t. 
It is a great sight to see our Catholic men 
going to confession the night before a battle. 
Every one is impressed by the faith of the 
men and the courage of the padres. You 
should see the chaplains going imarmed 
through the thick of the fight, to give absolu- 


SPION KOP 


185 


tion to a dying man. It makes one proud 
to be a Catholic. Here is a story you 
will like: Jack Macdonald fell mortally 
wounded in the last battle beside his 
chum, Harry Ommaney. ‘For God’s sake, 
Harry,’ he gasped, ‘get me a priest.’ 
Harry looked across the field. The bullets 
were falling like hail, ping-ping — such a 
nasty sound — and as he told me afterward 
he didn’t much like it. ‘The other fellows 
were afraid of death, Charlie,’ he said, ‘but 
I was afraid of hell.’ You see, old Harry 
had led a bit of a gay life, and had put off 
going to the Sacraments when he had the 
chance. But he went, found the priest, and 
pointed out to him where Jack lay. 

“ ‘That is all right, my son,’ said the padre, 
‘but you must come and show me the way.’ 

“ ‘I can’t. Father,’ said Harry. ‘I have 
been across once — I am not in a fit state to 
die.’ 

“ ‘God will take care of that,’ said the 
priest. ‘You must come.’ 

“So they started off across the fiery zone 


186 


SPION KOP 


and got there in time. Poor old Jack made 
his peace with God, and died with a smile on 
his face.” 

The Government had a contract with the 
omnibus proprietors, paying them a subsidy 
on condition of a certain number of their 
horses being available in time of war. The 
big, strong animals were now called upon for 
use; and after three-weeks’ rest on board 
ship, arrived at Cape Town in splendid con- 
dition. But when they were harnessed to 
the guns a serious difficulty arose. They 
were accustomed to wood pavements and 
macadamized streets, and had no experience 
of the heavy going of the African veldt. It 
was impossible to get them to move. In this 
dilemma one of the City Imperial Volun- 
teers, who had been a ’bus conductor, rushed 
forward. 

“ ’Ere, sir,” he called out, “I’ll manage 
’em.” 

And, getting behind them, he shouted out : 

“ ’Pool Street — Benk — penny all the way 
— ’igher up — ’igher up.” 


SPION KOP 187 

And higher up they went, obedient to the 
well-known voice of command. 

Sissy was in one of the big shops when the 
news came of the ascent of Spion Kop and 
its occupation by our troops. Some one 
rushed in with the tidings. All buying and 
selling stopped immediately, and every one 
began talking at once. A girl who knew 
Sissy slightly rushed up to her and wrung 
her hand. 

“Oh, Miss Wharton!” she exclaimed, 
“you have a brother out there, haven’t 
you?” 

Her own fiancS was in the attack. Poor 
girl! the next day brought the news of the 
evacuation, and her fiancees name was in the 
list of the killed. That brought the realities 
of war very near to Sissy, but worse was to 
come, more personal, and touching her more 
closely. She had gone out on an errand for 
Margaret, who was not very well; and, on 
her return, was met by the nurse, her eyes 
red with crying. 

“Oh, Miss Wharton!” she exclaimed. 


188 


SPION KOP 


“There is a telegram from the War OflSce. 
Colonel Fraser is dead!” 

“Where is Mrs. Fraser?” 

“In her room — but she said she wished to 
be alone.” 

“She will see me,” said Sissy, opening the 
bed-room door and going in. After a few 
minutes she came out again, looking dis- 
turbed and anxious. 

“Where is Master Cecil, nurse? Come, 
baby, dear.” 

And, taking the child in her arms, she car- 
ried him in to his mother. At the sight of 
him, Margaret’s composure suddenly gave 
way. 

“Oh, Sissy!” she cried. “My fatherless 
boy!” 

And, straining him to her heart, she burst 
into a passion of tears. The child was 
frightened. 

“Why mummy cry?” he asked. “Aunt 
Sissy, why mummy cry?” 

“Because she is sorry, darling,” answered 


SPION KOP 


189 


Sissy as well as she could, trying to steady 
her voice. “Love her, baby dear.” 

He put his httle fat arms obediently round 
his mother’s neck, and Sissy stole away, feel- 
ing she had left Margaret her best consola- 
tion. She went off to find the nurse and to 
ask what the telegram had said. 

“Mrs. Fraser has it, miss. But she told 
me the Colonel was killed in the moment of 
victory, leading his men. She was quite 
calm when she read it out.” 

“Yes, I know. She frightened me,” an- 
swered Sissy. “But I think she will be bet- 
ter now.” 

The burst of weeping left Margaret ex- 
hausted, but with a more natural sorrow than 
the first stunned horror of realization. 
Sissy slept in her friend’s room that night; 
she would not leave her alone. The touch 
of her hand was warm and comforting. In 
the silent watches she told Margaret of the 
Colonel’s last words to her at Larchester be- 
fore his departure. 


190 


SPION KOP 


“How good of him! How like him!” ut- 
tered Margaret brokenly. “It is a great 
trust. God help me to be faithful to it!” 

Presently she spoke again. 

“I don’t think death had any terrors for 
him. His faith was a very simple one. He 
believed in his Saviour. My father was the 
same. I have often seen soldiers like that. 
They meet death so often, they cease to fear 
it.” 

It was hard when, two days afterward, 
they heard the joy-bells ringing out from 
every church tower for the relief of Lady- 
smith, knowing what precious lives had been 
sacrificed in the attempt. If only he had 
lived to see it! But he had died a soldier’s 
death, the death he would have chosen, at the 
head of his men. Sissy’s heart was sore with 
regret for the friend she had lost, and she 
knew how Charlie would grieve for his kind 
chief. Two other colonels had been killed in 
the same engagement, and the total loss of 
life was very great. But the day was won, 
and the back of the Boer resistance broken 


SPION KOP 


191 


at last. The next day brought Sissy an ur- 
gent summons to return to Wharton. Her 
grandmother was down with influenza, and 
they feared pneumonia. She clung to her 
friend, hardly able to tear herself away. 

“I can not bear to leave you, Margaret,” 
she kept repeating. “But I must go.” 

“Of course you must, dear,” answered 
Margaret, kissing her. 

Perhaps it is as well we do not always 
know the thoughts of even our best friends. 
Sissy’s departure was almost a relief to Mar- 
garet, though she would not for worlds have 
let the girl suspect it. She had been an an- 
gel of consolation, but after the first few 
hours Margaret wanted to be alone, to be 
silent and think and pray, to rearrange the 
life so suddenly broken. She had a curious 
fancy that the spirit of her dead husband was 
hovering near her, that loyal, unselfish spirit 
that had been her stay and comfort in the 
saddest hours of her life. How patient he 
had been with her in those days which she 
could not bear to look back upon, days of 


192 


SPION KOP 


shame and bitterness, when she had lost the 
illusions of youth and learned to look with 
distrust upon life. It had taken her long 
months to live it down, and perhaps it was 
not till her baby was laid in her arms that 
the last shadow had passed away. 

But this, though deep and sincere, was a 
peaceful sorrow. It was the hand of God, 
not of man. There was no sting in it. She 
had nothing to reproach herself with, and 
how many of us can say as much when those 
we care for are taken from us? She had 
been a true and loving wife to the gallant 
gentleman who had given her his heart. 
Even her change of religion had brought no 
division between them. He had recogm'zed 
her right to follow the dictates of her con- 
science; and, though she would have given 
worlds if he could have shared in the revela- 
tion that had given new beauty and meaning 
to her life, she knew that he was in good faith 
and that he acted up to the light that was in 
him. 

The Colonel’s will left Margaret execu- 


SPION KOP 


193 


trix and sole guardian of her boy. He knew 
that her dreamy, poetic nature was balanced 
by sound common sense. She was soon busy 
with lawyers and investments, some of which 
needed to be changed, but the months of her 
husband’s absence had taught her self-reli- 
ance, and she adapted herself without much 
difficulty to the new conditions of her life. 
She had her boy’s interests to consider, and 
that awoke a wisdom and foresight which she 
might have lacked on her own account. It 
was not for some time afterward that details 
reached her of her husband’s death in that 
last wild dash for the hills behind which lay 
Ladysmith. Charlie was behind him when 
he fell, and rushed to his assistance. 

“Leave me, my boy,” he said. “I am 
done for. Your country wants you.” 

Charlie lingered to place him under the 
shadow of a rock with his water bottle 
within reach, and tore on to rejoin his men. 
But already the Boers were flying in all di- 
rections, and it was not long before he was 
able to return, and found the Colonel still 


194 


SPION KOP 


alive, but with his moments numbered. He 
pressed Charlie’s hand feebly. 

“Margaret, my dear love to her!” he mur- 
mured. “The boy — Sissy knows.” 

Then his eyes closed, a look of great peace 
came over his face, and his spirit passed 
away. “One of the best,” so Charlie wrote 
to Sissy. “The men are broken-hearted. 
He was a father and a friend to them all.” 

Mrs. Wharton was very ill indeed, as 
Sissy found on arriving, so ill that for some 
days her life was almost despaired of. Two 
Bon Secour nuns were sent for from Liver- 
pool, and Sissy and her old nurse took turns 
in watching beside her, for Mrs. Wharton 
clung to those she knew, and could not bear 
to be left with strangers, however kind and 
skilful. Then, quite suddenly, she took a 
turn for the better. It is strange how these 
frail people, whose hold on life seems so un- 
certain, recover, y^hile the strong ones die. 
Each day brought some fresh improvement, 
the Bon Secour nuns went back to their con- 
vent, and Nana slept in Mrs. Wharton’s 


SPION KOP 


195 


dressing-room with the door open between; 
but, beyond getting up once or twice in the 
night to see to the fire, she was not much 
disturbed. Sissy was resting on the sofa in 
her bed-room when Nana came in with a yel- 
low envelope in her hand. 

“A telegram for you. Miss Sissy,” she 
said, and waited to hear the news, for in 
those days telegrams were alarming visit- 
ants. 

Sissy tore it open, read it, and put her 
hand to her forehead with a bewildered ex- 
pression. 

“I don’t understand,” she said. “It is 
from Major Maxwell. ‘Charlie going on 
well. No cause for anxiety.’ Has the 
newspaper come?” 

“Just come. Miss Sissy. Shall I fetch 
it?” 

“If you would, dear Nana.” 

Nana hurried away, and returned almost 
breathless with the paper in her hand. Sissy 
snatched it from her. 

“Yes, here it is. ‘Lieutenant Charles 


196 


SPION KOP 


George Wharton severely wounded.’ Oh, 
Nana!” turning very pale, and letting the 
paper fall to the ground. 

“Now don’t take on. Miss Sissy dear,” ex- 
claimed her nurse, kneeling down beside her 
and taking her hand. “The Major says, 
‘No cause for anxiety.’ And very thought- 
ful it was of him to telegraph.” 

“He knew I would see it — yes, it was very 
kind,” said Sissy, with a little self-reproach. 
But she could not think of Maxwell then. 
Her thoughts were taken up with Charlie. 

“I must write to Mrs. Fraser at once. 
She may be able to get some later news.” 

“And the Squire, Miss Sissy?” ventured 
Nana. “The post doesn’t go out till two 
o’clock.” 

“You are right, Nana. I must go to him 
first.” 

The Squire was much upset, and in sooth- 
ing his fears Sissydnsensibly calmed her own. 
She knew she could trust Maxwell to tell her 
the truth. And Charlie was with him evi- 
dently, that was one comfort. But she wrote 


SPION KOP 


197 


a hasty note to Margaret by the early post, 
begging her to go to the War Office and 
make inquiries, and let her know as soon as 
possible. 

The next morning she drove into Carn- 
ston, to get some things from the drug-store 
for Mrs. Wharton. She knew she could not 
hear from Margaret till the afternoon. It 
was their nearest town, only three miles off, 
whereas Larchester was ten, which was a 
consideration. Consequently, Sissy did 
most of her petty shopping in Carnston, 
which was a small town, but rather an im- 
portant junction. Coming out of a shop 
she met Mary Roche, who had seen the no- 
tice in the paper, and came up to inquire 
about Charlie. Sissy greeted her warmly; 
she had always liked this cousin of hers, with 
her plain face and honest nature. She told 
her all she knew, and added: 

“I am expecting a telegram from Mrs. 
Fraser. She will get the latest information 
in town.” 

“Poor Sissy, you must he anxious,” said 


198 


SPION KOP 


Mary kindly. “But I am sure he will be 
all right ; and, at any rate, now he is wounded, 
he won’t run any more risks.” 

This was a new way of looking at it. 
Sissy could not help smihng. 

“You know,” continued Mary, “Philip 
wanted to volunteer, but he did not dare 
leave Eleanor. I should have gone if I had 
been he. He can do no good here. She 
will drag his name in the dirt before she has 
done. As it is, she is ruining him by her 
extravagance.” 

“Can nothing be done?” asked Sissy in a 
low voice. 

“Nothing. Philip is afraid of her. If he 
says a word she is insolent. She is always 
throwing you in his teeth. It was a long 
time before he heard the last of his going 
over to see you when his mother died. The 
best thing that could happen to Eleanor 
would be to lose her looks.” 

Sissy uttered an exclamation. 

“Oh! I know it sounds horrid to say so, 
but better her body than her soul. Half 


SPION KOP 


199 


measures are no use with Eleanor. You 
must strike — and strike hard — as I told you 
long ago. She never sees her child — the 
dearest little girl. Sissy, with such winning 
ways. Any mother would be proud of her.” 

“And Philip? Does he care for her?” 

“Oh, he is fond of her, and she adores him. 
Poor little soul!” 

“She has you, at any rate, Mary,” said 
Sissy affectionately. 

“I am not much. But I do what I can. 
Well, good-by. Sissy, I am glad to have seen 
you. I wish we could meet sometimes.” 

“Why shouldn’t we?” exelaimed Sissy im- 
pulsively. “Why don’t you come and see 
me?” 

“I didn’t think you would like it.” 

“But I should. You are not responsible 
—and it is all so long ago.” 

Mary promised to come, and Sissy drove 
away with a heavy heart, and the old aching 
longing to comfort the man who had spoiled 
his own life even more than hers. 


CHAPTER XVI 


HOME-COMING 

C HARLIE was invalided home as soon as he 
was well enough to be moved. Sissy 
went to meet him at Southhampton with 
very different feelings from her last expedi- 
tion. Her grandmother was well enough 
now to be left, and she spent the night in 
London with Margaret, who arranged to 
send her nurse out to sleep and take the boy 
into her own room in order to put up her 
friends the next day. It would be pleas- 
anter for them, she thought, than going to 
a hotel, and the journey up to the North 
without a break would be too fatiguing for 
Charlie. Fever had set in after his wound, 
and he had been very ill, but they hoped the 
journey on board ship would set him up. 

Sissy went down by an early morning 
train, and found herself one of many eagerly 

awaiting the arrival of the steamer. It 
200 


HOME-COMING 


201 


came in at last, the deck crowded with pas- 
sengers, among whom Sissy eagerly strained 
her eyes to distinguish her brother. She 
caught sight of him at length, standing a 
little apart, in a very shabby uniform, look- 
ing very pale and thin, with his arm in a 
sling. He waved to her, and in a few min- 
utes they were clasped in each other’s arms, 
and the months of suspense and anxiety were 
forgotten. 

“Oh! Charlie, how ill you look!” cried 
Sissy, lifting her head and gazing at him with 
wet eyes. “And how thin you have grown!” 

“It’s all right, old lady,” he answered. 
“I’m pounds better than I was. You should 
have seen me a month ago.” 

“And your arm. Can you use it?” 

“Not yet; you will have to cut up my din- 
ner for me.” 

Soon they were in the train, speeding up 
to town through the beautiful, smiling coun- 
try. The blossoms were out, and the land- 
scape looked like a garden. Charlie leaned 
out of the window, drinking it in with delight. 


202 


HOME-COMING 


“How peaceful it looks!” he exclaimed. 
“How safe! What a change from the veldt. 
Thank God for old England! Sissy, you 
don’t know what scenes I have been through. 
War is a ghastly thing.” 

He shuddered. 

“Don’t think of it,” said Sissy anxiously. 
“It is over now.” 

“Not yet. But the worst of it is, I hope. 
Bad luck, though, to have been wounded like 
this. I wanted to be in at the death.” 

“You have done quite enough,” declared 
Sissy — “Captain Wharton, D. S. O. Wait 
till you see what a reception you get at 
home.” 

“It will be aU owing to Maxwell if I do,” 
said Charlie; “I shouldn’t be here now but 
for him.” 

“Why? What did he do?” 

“Didn’t he tell you ? I might have guessed 
as much. Dragged me out from under the 
horse’s heels, and cut down the fellow who 
was going to make an end of me. I hope 
you are going to be nice to him. Sissy.” 


HOME-COMING 


203 


“Indeed, Charlie, I will do my best,” she 
answered earnestly. 

Margaret was waiting at the door of the 
flat to receive them, fair and tall in her deep 
mourning, her boy clinging to her skirts. 
Charlie felt a sudden lump in his throat; he 
stooped down hastily and kissed the child, 
muttering: “Poor little chap!” under his 
breath. 

“You must be tired,” said Margaret, lead- 
ing the way to the drawing-room. “Cap- 
tain Wharton, if you will take my advice, 
you will lie down and rest before dinner.” 

"‘Please, Mrs. Fraser, not Captain Whar- 
ton,” uttered Charlie, turning very red. 

“Charlie, then,” smiling at him with a 
sweet graciousness that yet seemed to leave 
him at an immeasurable distance from her. 
Her recent loss hedged her round with a bar- 
rier that inspired the young man with rever- 
ence and awe. Yet, after dinner when Sissy 
left them alone together, knowing Margaret 
had many questions to ask him, he grew more 
at his ease. His manner was full of defer- 


204 


HOME-COMING 


ence for his Colonel’s widow, but they met 
on common ground; and, after she had heard 
all he could tell her about her husband, she 
led him on to talk about himself and Max- 
well, and the regiment Colonel Fraser had 
commanded so long. She listened with 
eager attention, and Charlie, warming to his 
theme, grew graphic in his descriptions. 
When Sissy returned she found that all stiff- 
ness had vanished, and they were on the high 
road to friendship. 

“I think you should go to bed now, Char- 
lie dear,” said his sister. “Your man is wait- 
ing to help you.” 

Charlie had picked up a servant at Cape 
Town, being unable to do much for himself, 
and had brought him along with him. The 
porter had found a room for him below. 
Sissy came back when the man had retired, 
and stood talking to her brother, who was 
too excited to sleep. Suddenly they heard 
a sound in the distance, like the roaring of 
the sea. 

“Charlie ! What is that?” cried Sissy. 


HOME-COMING 


205 


“It sounds like cheering,” listening 
eagerly. “Something has happened. Good 
news, at any rate.” 

“The barracks are just below,” she ex- 
claimed. “I believe Mafeking is relieved.” 

It was the twelfth of May, and all Lon- 
don had been hanging breathless for days on 
the fate of the gallant little garrison, half- 
starving, as every one thought; though, in 
truth, their sufferings were not as great as 
those at Ladysmith. For half an hour the 
noise went on, then suddenly came cries in 
the road below: “Relief of Mafeking! 
Mafeking relieved!” 

“I must have a paper,” cried Sissy. 

And, throwing on a cape, she opened the 
door of the flat and ran downstairs to the 
street, where she found a little crowd already 
assembled, and papers being bought up as 
fast as they could be sold. With great diffi- 
culty she secured one, and hurried back, first 
going in to read the news to Charlie, and 
then taking the paper to Margaret, who was 
impatiently awaiting her turn. 


206 


HOME-COMING 


“Thank God for that!” said Charlie when 
his sister rejoined him. “That is good 
news to meet one on one’s return.” 

The country went wild the next day, and 
perhaps got a little foolish, but the strain 
had been very great, and the relief was pro- 
portionate. All along the line traveling up 
North were signs of rejoicing, church bells 
ringing in every town and village, people 
gathered in little knots at the railway sta- 
tions eagerly discussing the news. When 
Sissy and Charlie got out at Carnston, they 
found a little crowd of friends and neigh- 
bors waiting for them on the platform, and 
it was with difficulty they tore themselves 
away. A triumphal arch had been erected 
in the village for them to pass under, and at 
the lodge gates a number of the tenants had 
assembled, who insisted on taking the horses 
out of the carriage and dragging it up to the 
house. There was quite a gathering of peo- 
ple on the terrace — men, women, and 
children. The old Squire came hurrying 
out. 


HOME-COMING 207 

“Welcome, Charlie, my boy! Welcome 
home!” 

“Three cheers for the Captain! Three 
cheers for the young Squire!” shouted the 
men. 

This finished Charlie. He broke down 
and ran indoors, leaving Sissy to reply to 
the hearty congratulations that were show- 
ered on her from every side. But Charlie 
soon recovered, and came out to take his 
share. He shook hands with everybody with 
his left hand and thanked them. 

“I am very lucky,” he said, “to be back 
among you all, when so many brave fellows 
have left their bones out there.” 

“None braver than you, sir,” called out a 
voice in the crowd. “You are one of the old 
stock, and we are proud of you.” 

The people slowly dispersed, with many 
audible and flattering remarks. 

“There they go,” said one old woman as 
Charlie and Sissy disappeared into the house. 
“A bonny pair, and as like as two pins.” 

Charlie went in to his grandmother, to be 


208 


HOME-COMING 


kissed and blessed and cried over. He 
found her sadly altered, greatly to his con- 
cern. She had failed very much since her 
illness. Charlie had always been greatly at- 
tached to her. Gentle as she was, she had 
plenty of spirit and dignity, and had ex- 
ercised a controlling influence over the 
Squire’s irascible moods. 

Charlie himself had changed a good deal 
in the months of his absence. The scenes he 
had gone through had left their mark on him ; 
he had grown older and graver; he was no 
longer a boy, but a man. Every one recog- 
nized this ; the Squire leaned on him and con- 
sulted him about everything, and the man- 
agement of the estate passed more and more 
into his hands. 

The twins were overwhelmed with invita- 
tions. Every one wanted to meet the 
wounded hero, one of the first to return from 
the war. His pallor, the arm he carried in 
a sling, made him most interesting. All the 
girls were ready to lose their hearts to him. 
He had numerous flirtations, but emerged 


HOME-COMING 


209 


from them unscathed, and Sissy began to 
wonder if he had come across any one while 
he was away who had made an impression 
on him. But he denied it when she asked 
him. 

“No, Sis,” he answered. “I haven’t met 
any one yet I like as well as you. It is 
jolly, old girl, to be together again.” 

He put his band affectionately on her arm. 
They were coming home from a garden 
party, at which they had been the guests of 
honor, and Sissy was driving, for Charlie 
was still, to all intents and purposes, a one- 
armed man, though his general health was 
improving in the clean, pure air of his native 
county. But he was subject to attacks of 
fever which incapacitated him for days, 
though between whiles he managed to enjoy 
life all the more for these interruptions. 

“Shall we drive round by Carnston,” sug- 
gested Sissy, “and get a paper?” 

Charlie assented. As they came into the 
town, they noticed signs of excitement, and 
flags flying over the bank. 


210 


HOME-COMING 


“What is it?” asked Sissy eagerly, pulling 
up and addressing a group of workmen. 

“Pretoria, ma’am. We have entered 
Pretoria. The news has just come.” 

Charlie threw his hat in the air. 

“Ihen the war is over,” cried Sissy. 

“Not yet. Sissy. The Boer is a tenacious 
fellow, and will give us some trouble yet. 
But the news is great. Lord, I wish I had 
been there !” 

They could talk of nothing else going 
home. Charlie was wrought up, and his 
warlike instincts aroused. After dinner he 
drew his chair up to his grandmother’s sofa, 
and told her story after story of the cam- 
paign ; of Blundell, of the Guards, shot dead 
by a wounded Boer to whom he was offering 
his water bottle; of Major Childe who, like 
many others, had a strange presentiment of 
his coming death the night before the battle 
in which he was killed, and wrote out his own 
epitaph, which he begged might be put on his 
grave: “Is it well with the Child? It is 
well”; and many others. She was quite 


HOME-COMING 


211 


happy listening to her beloved grandson. 

“All the same, my darling,” she said when 
he again expressed his regret at not being 
there for the finish, “I am thankful to have 
you safe at home.” 

When she had gone up to bed, he strolled 
out on the terrace with Sissy to enjoy the 
beautiful summer night. 

“Strange things happen in war,” he said, 
following out his train of thought. “There 
was a fellow in the Imperial Light Horse. 
He was sent to accompany the wagons con- 
taining the sick and wounded. The plain 
looked perfectly clear as far as the eye could 
reach. Part of our troops were on ahead, 
the rest bringing up the rear. But the 
Boers, three hundred of them, were lying in 
ambush in a little dip through which the 
wagons had to pass; and, as they came up, 
the Boers took possession of them, we behind 
suspecting nothing. But this fellow gave 
the alarm. He fired his carbine into the 
midst of them, and was instantly shot down. 
It saved the following column. After the 


212 


HOME-COMING 


fight was over, his body was brought in, and, 
as there was no one else to do it, I went 
through his papers, in case there was any- 
thing that ought to be sent to his relatives. 
Among them I found this.” 

He took out a pocketbook and produced 
a photograph. 

“Margaret!” exclaimed Sissy. “Before 
she married, I suppose.” 

“I took possession of it. I didn’t want 
Mrs. Fraser’s photograph kicking about, for 
strangers to make remarks on. Do you 
know anything about it. Sissy?” 

“Yes, I think I do,” she answered slowly. 
“What was his name?” 

“Masters — at least so he called himself, 
but I don’t believe it was his real name. I 
fancy he had rather a shady past, which he 
was glad to bury. There were lots of such 
fellows out there, but he was a brave man — 
one of the bravest.” 

Sissy said nothing. She was thinking how 
strange it was that Charlie should have come 
across the end of that story. He did not ask 


HOME-COMING 


213 


her, nor did she volunteer any explanation. 
She put away the photograph when she went 
up to her room, and deliberated whether she 
should write and tell Margaret, but decided 
she would wait till she saw her. She was 
coming up to stay with them next month. 
It would be time enough then. 

Margaret arrived at Wharton in time for 
the haymaking, much to Master Cecil’s de- 
light. He rode on the top of the cart, held 
firmly in place by one of the farm-hands, and 
buried Charlie under a haycock with great 
glee. They had a few very hot days, which 
reminded Charlie of South Africa, when they 
were content to sit about and do nothing. 
But the nights were always cool. One day 
they went on an expedition to the Lakes. 
It seemed a pity not to take advantage of 
the lovely weather. They started very early 
in the morning, before the heat of the day, 
while the mists still lay on the distant hills. 
They took the train at Scarsdale, just below, 
and crossed the bay. To Sissy and Charlie, 
of course, every inch of the ground was fa- 


214 


HOME-COMING 


miliar, but Margaret was enchanted with the 
scenery. She was much taken with Granby, 
the little seaside town that lay on the sands 
on the opposite side of the bay, nestling un- 
der the hill, and so mild and sheltered that 
invalids were sent there for the winter. 

“I have a great mind. Sissy,” she said, “to 
take a house here for the winter months. 
The lease of my flat is up in October.” 

“I wish you would, Margaret,” exclaimed 
Sissy. “It would be delightful to have you 
so near.” 

“Do, Mrs. Fraser,” said Charlie eagerly. 

Margaret smiled at them. It was nice to 
feel they wanted her. And at Ulverstone, 
where they changed trains, and Charlie went 
off to talk to the station-master while they 
waited for the next one, she said so to Sissy. 

“One feels rather lonely at times,” she ob- 
served with a sigh. 

“Dearest,” cried Sissy impetuously, “you 
have me always. And Charhe is devoted to 
you.” 


HOME-COMING 


215 


“He is a dear fellow,” said Margaret 
warmly. “He is so good to baby. It 
makes my heart go out to him. How do you 
think he is, Sissy? He looks very delicate 
still.” 

“He is better, I think,” answered Sissy. 
“He does not get fever so often. His arm 
still troubles him a good deal, hut they say 
that will be all right.” 

Charlie rejoined them as the train came in, 
and they went on to Lakeside, where they 
took the steamer up the lake. It was a per- 
fect day on the water. At first the land- 
scape was rather tame, but smiling and pleas- 
ant, with gentle slopes and trees coming 
down to the water’s edge. At Bowness they 
found a regatta going on, bands playing, the 
landing-stage crowded with people, and gay 
little craft darting about in every direction. 
It looked so bright and lively, like a foreign 
place, it was hard to believe one’s self in the 
rugged North. 

“There’s nothing to beat our lakes in fine 


216 


HOME-COMING 


weather,” declared Charlie, “but wait till 
you get a fortnight’s rain, and it is another 
matter.” 

Now they were nearing the upper part of 
the lake, and the scenery grew wilder and 
more severe, but far more interesting. The 
water broadened out, and lost its riverlike 
appearance, and dark mountains shut in the 
view. They got out at Ambleside and 
walked up the steep little street to the inn. 
Here, as elsewhere, Charlie attracted a good 
deal of attention. The coffee-room was 
crowded with tourists, and the landlord, an 
old acquaintance, came up and offered them 
a private room, but they declined with 
thanks. It was far more amusing to watch 
and listen. The visitors were chiefly Ameri- 
cans, who know our country far better than 
we do ourselves, and had read up their sub- 
ject beforehand. Sissy was put to shame by 
their accurate knowledge. Most of them 
were starting off on a two- or three-days’ 
tour in the district, with copies of the Lake 
poets in their pockets. 


HOME-COMING 


217 


Coming back. Sissy persuaded Charlie to 
go and lie down in the cabin and sleep a lit- 
tle. It was a long day for him. They had 
the little steamer almost to themselves ; it was 
like being in their own yacht. As the after- 
noon waned, it grew chilly, and they were 
glad of their wraps. Margaret and Sissy 
leaned over the side, talking and watehing 
the light on the water and the lengthening 
shadows on land. It was an hour for con- 
fidences. Sissy drew near to her friend. 

“Margaret,” she said, “I have something 
to show you.” 

She drew out the photograph. Margaret 
started. 

“Sissy!” she exclaimed. “Where did you 
get this?” 

“From Charlie.” And she told her the 
story. 

The tears stood in Margaret’s eyes. 

“I never dreamed he had kept it. How 
it brings things back! Poor fellow!” 

She lapsed into silence. Sissy felt intui- 
tively that she would rather be alone, and 


218 


HOME-COMING 


walked to the other end of the deck. When 
she came back again, Margaret’s face had 
resumed its usual serene expression, but the 
photograph had disappeared. 


CHAPTER XVII 

“O BABE, PALE MABGABEtI” 

O LD Mr. and Mrs. Wharton died within a 
week of each other. It was the Squire, 
after all, who was the first to go. He was 
found dead one morning in his chair in the 
study, with a peaceful look on his face, as 
though death had come to him like a friend 
long-expected, and who needed to give no 
notice of his approach. A few days later 
Sissy closed her grandmother’s eyes, and 
kissed her forehead, wondering at the calm 
beauty of the marble features. Every trace 
of age and sorrow was smoothed away, but it 
was the face of a statue, not the familiar 
one which Sissy was used to seeing every 
day. 

Charlie now reigned at the Hall, and peo- 
ple began to wonder when he would give it 
a mistress. He seemed in no hurry. He 

219 


220 “O RARE, PALE MARGARET ! 


and Sissy were very happy together. They 
spent much of their time at Granby, where 
Margaret had taken a pretty little house 
quite close to the sea. There was always 
some excuse of game, or fruit, or the last 
new book, and the distance was so short, just 
across the bay. More than once Sissy, go- 
ing over unexpectedly, found Charlie in pos- 
session, looking very much at home, and 
wondered a httle that he had not told her 
of his intention, but was too happy at their 
being such good friends to make any remark. 
So the winter months went quietly by. A 
guerrilla warfare was going on in South 
Africa. Maxwell was busy chasing De 
Wet, and chafing at his enforced absence. 
He could not expect Sissy to wait forever. 
But Charlie wrote, and told him that it was 
all right; he need not worry; she gave no en- 
couragement to any one else. So he tried to 
possess his soul in patience. 

One day Sissy, going over her brother’s 
papers, and trying to reduce them to order, 
found something hidden away at the back of 


O RARE, PALE MARGARET !” 221 


the drawer, which gave her food for thought. 
It was a little pet ornament of Margaret’s 
which had been missing some time, and which 
she had been very vexed at losing. How 
did it come there? How strange of Char- 
lie ! And then a light suddenly broke upon 
her mind. Was it — could it be possible that 
he was beginning to care for her in that way? 
And, if so, what chance was there of his love 
being returned? She determined to watch 
and observe. 

“ ’Twas Eastertide, the feast of gladness.” 
Margaret had come over to spend the bank 
holiday at Wharton with her boy, and avoid 
the crowd of “trippers” with which Granby, 
like every other seaside place along the coast, 
was flooded. The year of deep mourning 
was over; she had discarded her heavy weeds, 
and wore a pretty black dress with a touch 
of white at the throat, in which she looked 
very fair and lovely. Charlie’s eyes fol- 
lowed her, as Sissy was quick to notice, but 
Margaret appeared quite unconscious. 
Sissy resolved to try an experiment. 


222 “O RARE, PALE MARGARET ! 


“Margaret,” she said suddenly at lunch- 
eon, “did you ever find that jet ornament you 
lost?” 

“No, never. It is very annoying. I 
liked it so much.” 

Charlie changed color, and looked rather 
uncomfortable. 

“You thought you lost it here, didn’t 
you?” 

“I did think so, but I must have been mis- 
taken. One of your servants would have 
been sure to find it.” 

“Some one would have found it,” said 
Sissy, with a curious significance in her tone. 

Charlie looked up quickly and caught his 
sister’s eye. They exchanged a long glance 
— of question on his side, of answer on hers. 
Then Sissy changed the conversation. But, 
after luncheon, when Margaret went up to 
put on her hat, Charlie waylaid his sister, 
who was about to follow her. 

“Come in here. Sis,” he said, opening the 
library door. “I want to speak to you.” 

She obeyed. 


“O RARE, PALE MARGARET !” 223 


“What did you mean,” he demanded, “just 
now at luncheon?” 

“I wanted to find out something, and I 
succeeded.” 

“Then you know. Sissy! Do you think I 
have a chance?” 

There was a ring of keen anxiety in his 
voice that it hurt her to hear. 

“Charlie, my darling,” she exclaimed, 
“how do I know? I never thought of you 
two in that light. How do you feel about it 
yourself?” 

“That she, like you, has never thought of 
it in that light,” he answered gloomily. 

“She is older than you — ” 

“What does that matter?” impatiently. 
“She is the queen of women to me. I would 
serve her on my knees if she would let me.” 

“Oh! my poor boy. Has it gone as far as 
that? And I never suspected it.” 

“Hush! Here she is,” as he heard her 
step on the stairs. “Mind, not a word of 
this.” 

“What do you take me for!” exclaimed 
Sissy indignantly. 


224 “O RARE, PALE MARGARET! ” 


But she was very anxious. She loved him 
so dearly, her twin, with whom her earliest 
recollections were intertwined, and would 
have done anything to secure his happiness. 
But this was heyond her power. She knew 
Margaret was fond of Charlie, but she was 
afraid that, from her standpoint of wife and 
mother, she looked upon him as a boy. Yet 
he had given proofs enough of manhood. 
How blind she had been! This had gone 
deep with Charlie, she was sure. His silence 
with her, to whom he was usually so com- 
municative, showed it. Yet the ice once 
broken, it seemed a relief to him to confide 
in her. Sitting by the library fire that eve- 
ning, after Margaret had left, he opened 
out. 

“I did not like to tell you. Sissy. I 
thought you would think it too soon after the 
poor old Colonel’s death. But, after all, it 
is more than a year ago,” defending himself. 

“When did you first begin to think about 
it?” she asked. 

“When I first came home, I felt there was 
no one like her. I put away the thought. 



“‘What is it, dear?’ she asked, stooping down. ‘What are you 
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‘O RARE, PALE MARGARET !” 225 


It seemed like sacrilege. But when she came 
to live here, and I saw her so often — Sissy, 
no man could have helped it.” 

“You must not hurry her,” answered 
Sissy. “You must give her time.” 

“Not too much,” said Charlie, with deci- 
sion. “Maxwell taught me a lesson.” 

Sissy blushed rosy red. 

The next day she drove over to call on 
some distant neighbors. She tried in vain 
to get Charlie to accompany her. They 
were dull people ; but, after all, as Sissy said, 
one must be civil. Returning home, the road 
passed very near to Langton, and her pulses 
quickened. It was not often now that she 
came that way, which had once been so fa- 
miliar. Just below was a little wood which 
she knew well, and which, at this time of 
year, was carpeted with wildflowers. A 
sound caught her ear, and she bent forward 
to listen. It was the voice of a crying child ; 
and, as they turned the corner, she saw' a 
little fair-haired girl sitting by the roadside, 
weeping bitterly. Sissy stopped the car- 
riage, and got out. 


226 “O RARE, PALE MARGARET !” 


“What is it, dear?” she asked, stooping 
down. “What are you crying for?” 

A little tear-stained face was upraised to 
hers — a sweet little face that seemed, some- 
how, familiar. 

“I am Dorothy Leigh. I am lost. Will 
you take me home ?” 

Dorothy Leigh ! the name of Philip’s dead 
mother — of the friend she had never ceased 
to mourn! This must be Philip’s little 
daughter. What trick had fate in store for 
her now? 

“Of course I will,” she answered. “But 
why are you here alone? Where is your 
nurse?” 

“I was naughty,” said Dorothy, hanging 
her head. “I runned away. But I am 
good now. I won’t do it again.” 

“That’s right,” said Sissy encouragingly. 
“Little girls shouldn’t run away. Think 
how anxious your papa and mama must be.” 

“Mama is gone away — gone away for 
good,” came the startling reply. “Nannie 
says she won’t never come back any more. 


“O RARE, PALE MARGARET !” 227 


and daddy wouldn’t take her back if she did.” 

The news took Sissy’s breath away, 
Eleanor gone — gone, as the child’s words 
implied, in some disgraceful fashion. She 
felt too stunned to speak. 

“I’m glad she’s gone,” continued the little 
girl. “I don’t want her to come back.” 

“Hush! child,” said Sissy instinctively. 
“You mustn’t speak like that of your 
mother.” 

“Nannie says she isn’t like a mother to me. 
I heard her telling Annie. She slapped me 
because I spilled some water on her dress. 
I wish you were my mama,” nestling closer 
to Sissy, and slipping her little hand confid- 
ingly in hers. “You are so pretty and so 
nice.” 

Children’s remarks are apt at times to be 
inconvenient to their elders. Sissy’s color 
deepened. 

“Come, little Dorothy,” she said, trying to 
hide her embarrassment, “I will drive you 
home.” 

“Why do you call me Dorothy? That 


228 “O RARE, PALE MARGARET !” 


is my Sunday name. I only use it when I 
say my catechism.” 

“What shall I call you, then?” asked 
Sissy, amused in spite of herself at the child- 
ish prattle. 

“I am daddy’s little Dolly,” answered the 
child as if she were repeating a lesson. 

A sudden mist dimmed Sissy’s vision. 
Poor little Dolly! Poor little child, worse 
than motherless, left to servants’ care and 
servants’ gossip, who had never known a 
mother’s love, and to whom the name of 
mother must henceforth be associated with 
shame and disgrace! With an impulsive 
movement she gathered her into her arms 
and kissed her. The child clung round her 
neck. 

“I like you,” she whispered, “I like you. 
I wish you could stay with me always.” 

Sissy set her gently down, and signaled to 
the carriage to approach. Dolly’s attention 
was instantly distracted. 

“Is that your carriage?” she exclaimed, 
dancing with delight. “Are you going to 


“O RARE, PALE MARGARET!” 


229 


drive me back? Oh, thank you so much! I 
have never been inside a carriage in my life.” 

“What, not when you go away?” 

“I never go away. Papa and mama go 
away, but I stay here.” 

Sissy’s heart swelled again with indignant 
pity, but she made no remark. 

“To Langton Hall,” she said, stepping 
into the carriage. 

The footman touched his hat. He was 
too well-trained to show any surprise, but it 
may be imagined what comments passed be- 
tween him and the coachman when he climbed 
upon the box. How many years was it since 
that direction had been given? 

Sissy leaned back in the carriage, absorbed 
in the same thought. But little Dolly sat 
bolt upright, anxious that every one they 
passed should see her. She was a pretty 
child, with the regular features and fair col- 
oring of the Leighs. They reached the 
Hall ; the door flew open, and the butler, an 
old family servant who knew Sissy well, 
came^hurrying out. 


230 “O RARE, PALE MARGARET !” 


“Miss Dolly! Thank God! Mrs. Ma- 
sham has been nearly wild about you.” 

“I am all right, May,” said Dolly, with 
dignity. “This lady found me, and brought 
me home.” 

“But it was very naughty of you, missy, to 
give so much trouble. The men have been 
hunting for you in all directions. You 
should think of your poor papa.” 

“Good-by, Dolly,” said Sissy, holding out 
her hand. 

“Won’t you step into the library, ma’am, 
and see Sir Philip?” suggested the butler. 
“He would like to thank you, I’m sure.” 

Sissy hesitated. 

‘Tf I might make so bold, ma’am,” lower- 
ing his voice, “I think it might do him good. 
He hasn’t spoken nor touched a thing since 
the morning.” 

Taking Dolly by the hand, she went. 

Philip was seated beside the table in the 
window, his face buried in his hands. He 
had remained like that for hours without tak- 
ing any notice of any one. The butler had 


O RARE, PALE MARGARET !” 231 


been in once or twice, and attempted to rouse 
him, but without success. Mary was away. 

“Philip,” said Sissy, advancing into the 
room, “I have brought you back your little 
girl.” 

He looked up, disclosing a face so wild, so 
haggard, that Sissy involuntarily shrank 
back. But Dolly, loosing her hold of 
Sissy’s hand, ran forward. 

“Daddy,” she exclaimed, clambering on 
to his knee. “Won’t you thank the lady? 
May said you would like to. I was a 
naughty little girl. I runned away, and she 
brought me back in her beautiful carriage.” 

“I don’t understand,” said Philip wearily, 
passing his hand over his forehead. “Were 
you lost? No one told me anything about 
it.” 

Then, with a sudden start, as his eyes fell 
upon Sissy standing in the shadow of the 
doorway: 

“You here. Sissy!” he exclaimed. “Have 
you come to see how amply you are 
avenged?” 


232 “O RARE, PALE MARGARET !” 

She burst into tears. Her nerves were al- 
ready shaken by all she had heard and seen, 
and this accusation gave the last blow to her 
self-control. 

“Philip,” she cried, “how can you think 
such a thing? I would give anything to 
undo what has happened. But I will leave 
you. I did wrong to come. My presence 
is only an intrusion.” 

She turned to go. Philip stopped her. 

“Forgive me,” he said. “I don’t know 
what I said. My mind is dazed and bewil- 
dered, but I did not mean to give you pain. 
Did not the child say something about your 
having brought her back?” 

“She found me crying in the road,” said 
Dolly indignantly, “and she kissed me, and 
took my hand. It is very unkind of you, 
daddy, to make her cry when she was so 
good to me!” 

“The child is right,” observed Philip, look- 
ing down with the ghost of a smile on the 
flushed little champion by his side. “For- 


“O RARE, PALE MARGARET !” 233 


give me. Sissy.” And, after an almost im- 
perceptible pause, he added: 

“You have heard?” 

“I have heard,” she answered reluctantly. 
“Believe me, Philip, I am sorry from the 
bottom of my heart.” 

“She has left me. And yet. Sissy,” rising 
and pacing the room with rapid, uneven 
steps, “even now if she returned to me I 
would forgive her and take her back.” 

It was a weak confession, characteristic of 
the man, though Sissy, blinded with sorrow 
and compassion, did not see it. To forgive 
is noble, but to be willing to take her back 
showed him callous to every feeling of honor 
and self-respect. What security could he 
hope for in the future if he was so ready to 
condone the past? He had sunk back in his 
chair, oblivious apparently of Sissy’s pres- 
ence. There, in his ruined home, he sat, 
a miserable, broken-down man, disgraced 
among his fellows, a laughing-stock. The 
sight was more than Sissy could bear. She 


234 “O RARE, PALE MARGARET !” 


stole out of the room and hurried away, pull- 
ing down her veil, to hide her emotion. 

“Home,” she said to the footman. “And 
shut the carriage, please.” 

She had no wish to expose her face to the 
curious observation of chance passers-by. 
Charlie was standing on the doorstep when 
she arrived, looking grave and shocked. 

“This is a terrible business,” he said, tak- 
ing her arm and leading her into the garden. 

“Yes, indeed,” she answered. 

“Cut off in her sins, without a moment for 
repentance.” 

“Good heavens! Charlie, what do you 
mean?” 

“I thought you knew. I heard it in Lar- 
chester. It is in the second edition of to- 
day’s paper. A railway accident on the line 
to Paris. Among the passengers Captain 
Trevor and Lady Leigh, killed instantly.” 

Sissy broke down completely. 

“Oh, my poor Philip !” she sobbed ; and for 
once Charlie failed to reprove her. 


CHAPTER XVIII 
Charlie’s marriage 

M ary Roche was on a visit in Ireland. 

She hastened home as soon as she 
heard the awful news. The body of Elea- 
nor — Lady Leigh — was brought home, and 
by Philip’s directions was laid in the family 
vault. This, under the circumstances, ex- 
cited comment; but, after all, it was Philip’s 
own affair. Dolly was much pleased with 
her new black frock. Her nurse tried to ex- 
plain to her that she wore it on account of her 
poor mama, but Dolly’s childish mind failed 
to grasp the connection. She understood, 
however, that for some reason her mother’s 
name must not be mentioned — above all, in 
her father’s presence. 

Slary came over to Wharton soon after 
the funeral, to see Sissy and thank her for 

235 


236 CHARLIE’S MARRIAGE 


her kindness to Dolly. She was very mueh 
upset, and eould hardly speak without ery- 
ing. Sissy tried to comfort her, but without 
much success. 

“It is so terrible,” she kept repeating. 
“To be cut off without a moment’s warning. 
You will pray for her. Sissy, won’t you? 
She wronged you deeply, but — ” 

“Mary!” interrupted Sissy. “Do you im- 
agine I can think of that now? Of course I 
will pray for her, poor soul! And if I, a 
faulty human creature, can forgive her, as I 
do from the bottom of my heart, can you not 
trust to the infinite mercy of God, who sees 
all and knows all, and can find excuses where 
we can not? To understand all is to pardon 
all.” 

Charlie, coming in, gave Mary a hearty 
kiss. 

“Poor old Polly!” he said. “You must 
come over here whenever you feel inclined. 
Sissy and I will always be glad to see you.” 

“Thank you, Charlie,” said Mary grate- 
fully. 


CHARLIE’S MARRIAGE 237 


She availed herself very often of the in- 
vitation in the days that followed. It was 
dreary at Langton. Philip only appeared 
at meals. The rest of the time he was shut 
up in his study, where nobody dared disturb 
him, excepting his little daughter. Mary 
would have liked to bring Dolly with her on 
her visits to Wharton, but she did not dare, 
and Sissy did not suggest it. She was never 
quite certain how much Charlie would stand. 

Mary was spending the afternoon at 
Wharton when Margaret came in unexpect- 
edly. She had met Charlie in Carnston, and 
he had persuaded her to come up to tea. 
Mary admired Margaret greatly, but stood 
somewhat in awe of her; for, with all her 
sweetness, she was rather unapproachable, 
except where her own friends were con- 
cerned. Tea was brought in, a regular 
North Country tea, with cakes and scones, 
and a kind of oatcake, a local delicacy, which 
Sissy patronized, in order, as she said, laugh- 
ing, to encourage home production. 

“I always enjoy the Wharton scones,” 


238 CHARLIE’S MARRIAGE 


said Margaret. “They are the best I 
know.” 

“Yes, they are good,” said Charlie, help- 
ing himself to another. 

“Charlie’s appetite never fails,” remarked 
Sissy. “I should know he was seriously ill 
if he couldn’t eat.” 

She spoke lightly, but her face was 
flushed, and she seemed preoccupied. Mar- 
garet looked at her anxiously. Sissy had 
not been herself lately ; and, whether by acci- 
dent or design, she had not been able to see 
her alone and make inquiries. 

Tea over, Margaret rose and said she must 
catch her train. Charlie offered his escort to 
the station, which lay at the bottom of the 
hill, just beyond the confines of the estate. 

“I see nothing of Sissy now,” said Mar- 
garet as they descended the path. “Your 
cousin is always there.” 

“Poor old Polly! Don’t you like her, 
Mrs. Fraser?” asked Charlie. “She is a 
real good sort. It is lonely for her at Lang- 
ton. Leigh sits and glooms all day, and the 


CHARLIE’S MARRIAGE 239 


child is too young to be a companion.” 

“But I miss Sissy, all the same.” 

“Can’t I take her place?” inquired Charlie 
boldly. 

Margaret laughed. 

“You! you foolish boy” — she began, but 
Charlie suddenly flared up. 

“Boy!” he exclaimed. “I am sick of be- 
ing called a boy. I wish you could begin to 
realize that I am a man.” 

Margaret looked at him in pained sur- 
prise. In a moment he was at her feet. 

“Oh, Mrs. Fraser, dearest Mrs. Eraser, 
forgive me! I love you so devotedly.” 

“Get up, Charlie,” said Margaret, greatly 
agitated. “This is no attitude from you to 
me.” 

He obeyed. 

“I am very, very sorry,” she repeated. 
“Is this my fault?” 

“No, it is not your fault,” cried Charlie 
impetuously. “How can you help being so 
desirable that no man can see you without 
loving you?” 


240 CHARLIE’S MARRIAGE 


“I have only thought of you as Sissy’s 
brother — ” 

“Then, will you try to think of me as my- 
self — a man who adores you, and would give 
his life for you?” 

“Hush! Charlie,” said Margaret. “You 
shock me.” 

“I know what you think — that I have for- 
gotten the dear old Colonel. But I haven’t. 
He would like me to take care of you and the 
boy.” 

“I can not understand,” she sighed. “I 
am older than you — ” 

“I am twenty-five,” said Charlie stub- 
bornly. 

“And I am twenty-eight — three years on 
the wrong side.” 

“What does that matter, if you can only 
care for me?” 

“I do care for you — very much. You 
have been so kind to my boy, so good to 
me !” 

“Good to you! Oh, Margaret!” 

He could say no more. 


CHARLIE’S MARRIAGE 241 


“I can not bear to give you pain.” 

“Why should you?” he pleaded. “Look 
here, Margaret, I have taken you by sur- 
prise. I did not mean to speak to-day, but 
it rushed out. Will you think it over? It is 
not much to ask.” 

“I will, Charlie, but I am afraid it is no 
use.” 

“Try me,” he urged. “Give me a chance. 
And, remember,” earnestly, “it is not a boy’s 
love I offer you, but a man’s.” 

The station was in sight, and both felt the 
necessity of composing themselves before 
they met the eyes of strangers. Just before 
the train started, Charlie put his head in at 
the window. 

“How long must I wait?” he asked. 

“A week,” she answered; and, as he would 
have protested, “no, I insist.” 

“It will be a very long week for me,” he 
grumbled. 

At twenty-eight a woman of Margaret’s 
type is perhaps at her best. She had gained 
with every year that passed over her head in 


242 CHARLIE’S MARRIAGE 


dignity and sweetness and tender womanli- 
ness, bringing to mind the words of the Can- 
ticle; “Thy eyes are dove’s eyes, besides 
what is hid within.” She was the very em- 
bodiment of the eternal type of womanhood 
that we associate with the pictures of Italian 
madonnas. Without an effort on her part 
she had captured Charlie’s affections, and 
her serene unconsciousness only added to the 
attraction. But now that serenity was 
sorely troubled. Had she been to blame? 
Ought she to have seen what was coming? 
The idea of remarriage had not occurred to 
her, least of all in connection with Charlie. 
She was wrapped up in her hoy, her one aim 
and object to bring him up a Christian and a 
gentleman, as the Colonel had said. But the 
thought once admitted, it was difficult to shut 
it out. After all, she was still young, and 
the greater pari; of her life lay before her. 
It was absurd to think of it as ended, or as a 
mere shadowy existence merged in the lives 
of others. To be Sissy’s sister was a great 


CHARLIE’S MARRIAGE 243 


temptation. The tie between them was un- 
usually strong. Sissy had stood by her at a 
crisis in her life, and she would never forget 
it. No one else could ever be quite the same 
to her. But she knew how easily we drift 
apart in life from those we love best, how cir- 
cumstances divide, and feelings change. 
This would give force and solidity to their 
friendship ; it would be a bond of union diffi- 
cult to break. So she passed the week 
thinking, wondering; all the time growing 
more accustomed to the idea. But she must 
see Sissy before deciding. 

“I want to talk to you,” she wrote. “Will 
you come over to dine and sleep? I wish to 
ask your advice.” 

Sissy handed the note to her brother at 
breakfast. He flushed a little as he read it. 

“Do what you can for me. Sis,” he said. 
“She wants to consult you.” 

“If it depends on me,” said Sissy, “your 
cause is won.” 

And so it proved. Margaret could not 


244 CHARLIE’S MARRIAGE 


resist Sissy’s arguments, but she must have 
time to readjust her ideas, to consider 
Charlie under this new aspect. 

“You are not vexed with me. Sissy, for 
taking him from you?” 

“Margaret dearest! I shall bless you for 
making him happy.” 

“I can not bear the thought of taking your 
place at the Hall, where you have been mis- 
tress so long,” sighed Margaret. “But the 
war will soon be over, and Major Maxwell 
will be coming back to claim you.” 

“Don’t, Margaret,” cried Sissy des- 
perately, turning away. “I can not bear to 
think of that.” 

“Sissy!” exclaimed Margaret aghast. 
“You are not going to disappoint him when 
he has been so faithful to you?” 

“He should have come home sooner. He 
has waited too long. Oh, I know I am hor- 
rid to say this — you can not blame me more 
than I blame myself. But things have hap- 
pened.” 

Margaret understood. 


CHARLIE’S MARRIAGE 245 


“Mary has been telling me about Philip,” 
began Sissy. 

The best of us are not perfect. A twinge 
of jealousy shot across Margaret’s breast. 
So this was the secret of Sissy’s sudden 
friendship for her cousin. Poor Mary had 
not found favor in Margaret’s eyes, and now 
she was ready to condemn her for encourag- 
ing Sissy in feelings which could only be pro- 
ductive of pain. 

“Margaret,” said Sissy with an effort, “I 
am very unhappy.” 

And at the words, Margaret forgot Mary, 
forgot everything but Sissy who needed 
comfort. 

“Tell me all about it, my poor darling,” 
she said, putting her arm round her, and 
drawing her close to her side. 

“I can not help thinking of him, sitting 
alone, eating his heart out. Oh ! I know he 
doesn’t want me — nobody wants me,” un- 
gratefully, “except those I don’t want. 
But I said I would be a friend to him when 
his mother died. I can not be forced. Mar- 


246 CHARLIE’S MARRIAGE 


garet. Bernard is a man. He can take 
care of himself.” 

“You shall not be forced.” 

“And Charlie must not scold me,” fever- 
ishly. “I can not bear it.” 

Poor Sissy! the strain was too much for 
her. It was not like her to think of herself, 
but the effort to be true to Maxwell, when 
her heart was breaking for the man she had 
tried so hard to forget, was beyond her 
strength. It advanced Charlie’s cause as 
nothing else could have done. Margaret 
felt that, as his wife, she could protect and 
defend Sissy, could shield her from Charlie’s 
roughness, and his manlike want of compre- 
hension. When Sissy went back the next 
morning she carried with her the assurance 
that Margaret’s dispositions were favorable. 

“But you can not expect her to fall into 
your mouth, like a ripe cherry,” she cau- 
tioned her brother. “She is a Christian 
woman, not a Turk. She must be wooed 
and won.” 

So Charlie began his courtship, and made 


CHARLIE’S MARRIAGE 247 


steady progress in his lady’s favor. In his 
absorption he failed to notice how ill Sissy 
was looking, but Margaret saw it, and spoke 
to him about it. 

“I can’t think why,” he said. “She has 
everything to make her happy.” 

The blindness of men! Margaret did not 
enlighten him. Only she begged him to be 
gentle with her, and he promised to obey. 
One day when he was urging his suit he had 
a happy inspiration. 

“l.et us put it to the boy,” he said, and 
called little Cecil, who was playing in the 
adjoining room with a magnificent model 
train that Sissy had given him on his last 
birthday. 

“Come here, my son,” and he placed him 
between his knees. He was a fine, sturdy 
little fellow, just four years old. “How 
would you like to live at Wharton al- 
ways?” 

“With you and Aunt Sissy? Oh, it 
would be lovely — if mummy would come, 
too.” 


248 CHARLIE’S MARRIAGE 


“That is just what I am trying to per- 
suade her.” 

“Oh, mummy, do!” exclaimed the child, 
climbing on her knee, and putting his soft 
little cheek against hers. “I should have 
such a nice, big playroom. And I could 
have rabbits there — couldn’t I, Uncle Char- 
lie?” 

“Rabbits, and a pony, and anything else 
you like. Only I couldn’t allow you to call 
me Uncle Charlie.” 

“What should I call you then?” asked the 
child, puzzled. 

“Daddy,” he answered; and, meeting 
Margaret’s eyes: “Indeed, I would be a 
true father to him, Margaret, I swear to 
you.” 

A few weeks later the wedding took place 
in the village church. Margaret was mar- 
ried in a traveling dress, but a large number 
of neighbors assembled, and Sissy did the 
honors very prettily at the wedding-break- 
fast, which was held at Wharton Hall. 
Then the bride and bridegroom left for the 


CHARLIE’S MARRIAGE 249 


Continent, and Sissy took her little godson 
to a seaside place in the south of England, 
where he played all day long on the sands 
and enjoyed himself to his heart’s content. 
They stayed at a nice hotel, and Sissy used 
to lie awake at night listening to the waves, 
which seemed to harmonize with her rest- 
less mood. 

Life was very hard on her just then. She 
was at a loose end, necessary to nobody, as 
she had said herself. Charlie and Margaret 
were happy together. F or the moment she 
was of use taking charge of the boy; but, 
after all, a nurse could have done as much. 
When the thought of Maxwell obtruded it- 
self, she turned away from it impatiently. 
He had telegraphed his congratulations on 
Charlie’s marriage. She had not answered 
his last letter. She did not know what to 
say. To write as she felt would hurt his 
feelings, and she could not be a hypocrite. 
What the end of it all was to be she could 
not see. 

She came back to Wharton just in time 


250 CHARLIE’S MARRIAGE 


to welcome the newly married couple on 
their return. Even on her honeymoon Mar- 
garet had not been able to refrain from 
thinking of Sissy. Charlie looked thor- 
oughly happy, but there is always one who 
loves and another who is loved, and 
I am afraid this was the case with him 
and Margaret. Perhaps it was her fate 
to be worshiped. She had been adored and 
placed on a pedestal by both her husbands. 
The depths of her heart had only once been 
sounded, and then it had nearly cost her her 
life. It had left her with a horror and dread 
of any strong emotion. 

With Margaret’s return. Sissy’s house- 
hold duties came to an end. There could 
not be two mistresses in a house, she told her 
sister-in-law, and Margaret was wise enough 
to see it. But time hung heavy on Sissy’s 
hands with the loss of her wonted occupa- 
tions, and she sometimes wondered what she 
was going to do with her life. One thing 
she was determined — ^that she would not be 
persuaded into a loveless marriage. 


CHAPTER XIX 

IN SPITE OF ALL 

S issy had just come in from church on 
Sunday. Margaret and Charlie were 
following her. She was taking off her hat 
in front of the glass when a servant knocked 
at the door. 

“If you please, ma’am, Sir Philip Leigh 
is in the drawing-room, and would like to 
speak to you.” 

“Say I will be down in a minute,” an- 
swered Sissy, wondering. 

It must be something urgent that could 
bring Philip to Charlie’s house. She has- 
tened downstairs fearing an encounter be- 
tween the two men. Charlie would not be 
rude, of course, but she would rather they 
did not meet. Philip came forward at her 
entrance, looking pale and anxious. 

251 


252 


IN SPITE OF ALL 


‘T have come to ask a favor, Sissy,” he be- 
gan. “My little girl is very ill. She does 
nothing but cry for you. Will you come to 
her? The doctor says that her life may de- 
pend on her wish being gratified.” 

“Of course I will, Philip.” 

“I brought the dog-cart. I thought per- 
haps you would drive back with me.” 

“I will put on my things at once. But I 
must leave a message for my sister-in-law.” 

She rang the bell, and told the servant to 
inform Margaret when she came in what had 
happened, then hastened up to her room. 
Nana was putting away her things. 

“I am going out again, Nana. No, you 
need not wait.” 

She was just tying on her veil when she 
heard a step outside, a hasty knock, and, 
without waiting for an answer, Charlie burst 
into the room. 

“Sissy, what is this I hear? You are not 
thinking of going?” 

“Indeed I am.” 

“What! to Leigh’s house? After all that 


IN SPITE OF ALL 


253 


has happened? Have you thought what 
people will say?” 

“What does that matter if I can do any 
good?” 

“Then I care for you. If you won’t lis- 
ten to me, I will speak to Leigh.” 

He turned to the door. Sissy threw her- 
self in his way. 

“Charlie,” she pleaded, “be reasonable. 
The child is ill. It is a matter of life and 
death. How can I refuse?” 

“I don’t believe it. And — even if it were 
true — suppose she refuses to let you go?” 

“Then I shall stay, of course.” 

“Alone with Leigh! You are mad.” 

“What nonsense, Charlie. Mary is 
there.” 

“Mary!” 

He was staggered for a moment. 

“It is true,” he owned reluctantly. “I 
had forgotten that. All the same. Sissy, I 
strongly disapprove.” 

“I am sorry, Charlie, but I must judge for 
myself.” 


254 


IN SPITE OF ALL 


She picked up her gloves, and left him 
to relieve his mind to Margaret who, how- 
ever, took Sissy’s part. 

“I don’t see what else she could do, 
Charlie, if the child is so ill.” 

"His child,” growled Charlie, “and Elea- 
nor’s. Confound him ! Why can’t he leave 
her alone?” 

It seemed like a dream to Sissy to be driv- 
ing once more to Langton by Philip’s side, 
as she had so often done in days gone by. 
What a gulf lay between the present and the 
past! And yet, in spite of herself, the 
clouds which had overshadowed her so long 
lifted a little. Philip drove well, and there 
was a certain exhilaration in being driven 
quickly through the air behind a fast trot- 
ting horse. He spoke very little during the 
eight miles’ drive, and she studied him fur- 
tively under the shadow of her hat. Poor 
Philip, how changed he was ! What lines of 
care and trouble in his face! It was not 
wrong to think of him now, that was one 
comfort. There was no struggle between 


IN SPITE OF ALL 


255 


her conscience and her heart, as there had 
been before. 

Dolly welcomed her with feeble delight. 
One of those feverish maladies to which ex- 
citable children are prone had threatened to 
wreck the delicate little brain. Sissy’s im- 
age had taken possession of her mind. Ever 
since the day when Sissy had brought her 
home, she had never ceased to talk of her. 
When her illness came on, she tossed from 
side to side, crying out for her “pretty lady” 
to come and make her well. Philip tried in 
vain to soothe her; she grew so feverish at 
being contradicted that the doctor told him 
he would not answer for the consequences if 
her wish was refused. 

As Charlie had foreseen, she refused to let 
Sissy go. She grew restless directly the 
subject was mentioned, and a groom was 
despatched to Wharton to bring back Sissy’s 
things and her maid. She sat holding the 
hot little hand until Dolly fell into a peace- 
ful sleep. The doctor came in the after- 
noon, and found a marked improvement. 


256 


IN SPITE OF ALL 


“But she must be kept very quiet,” he in- 
sisted. “Only one person must be in the 
room at a time. And Miss Wharton must 
stay. The delirium might come on again at 
any moment.” 

There was no help for it — even Charlie 
would have owned as much. The child 
clung to her, and could with difficulty be per- 
suaded to let her out of her sight when Mary 
relieved her for intervals of rest. She saw 
little of Philip, for her time was taken up 
with the child, but the knowledge that he was 
there, under the same roof, sent a strange ex- 
citement through her veins. He waylaid 
her one morning after breakfast, and 
thanked her earnestly. 

“I haven’t deserved this of you. Sissy,” he 
said. “Your brother is right.” 

“Why, has he spoken to you?” asked Sissy 
breathlessly. 

“No, but he makes no secret of his opinion. 
Others have told me.” 

Mary probably, thought Sissy, knowing 
Mary’s outspokenness and want of tact. 


IN SPITE OF ALL 


257 


Children recover as quickly as they fall ill; 
and, the fever-storm once over, Dolly was 
soon herself again. But when Sissy spoke 
of her departure she burst into tears. Sissy 
Avts much perplexed. She could not stay on 
indefinitely, but it seemed cruel to leave the 
poor little thing who had taken such a curi- 
ous fancy to her. She wrote to Margaret, 
and asked if she might bring her back with 
her to Wharton for a few days’ visit. It 
would do her so much good to have a child 
of her own age to play with. Margaret per- 
suaded Charlie to consent, much against his 
will. Dolly could hardly contain herself 
with delight. To go on a visit, like a 
grown-up young lady — she who had never 
been away from home before! She drove 
off by Sissy’s side, full of importance and 
dignity, but when she arrived at the strange 
house she turned a little shy. Margaret 
took her into the nursery, and left her with 
Cecil. They looked at each other strangely 
at first, but tea loosened their tongues, and 
soon afterward they were running about to- 


258 


IN SPITE OF ALL 


gether, Dolly’s fair hair fluttering in the 
wind, and Cecil full of attentions for his little 
visitor. She was soon quite at home with 
all, but showed a marked preference for 
Charlie, as children so often do for men. 
Perhaps it was partly his likeness to Sissy. 
Irate as he was against the father, he could 
not hold out against the innocent child; and, 
diverted by her dignified airs, he treated her 
with much deference, calling her “Miss 
Leigh,” to her intense delight. At the end 
of a week Philip came to fetch her home, but 
she begged to be allowed to remain. 

“I am sure Captain and Mrs. Wharton do 
not mind my staying. Do you?” appealing 
to Charlie. 

“On the contrary.” 

“There, you see. Do let me, daddy. It 
is so dull at home.” 

“And what am I to do all alone, Dolly?” 

“Why don’t you stay here, too?” 

It was an awkward question. Philip’s 
confusion was reflected in Sissy’s face. 
Margaret came to the rescue. 


IN SPITE OF ALL 


259 


“Let her stay another week, Sir Philip. 
She is no trouble, I assure you, and my little 
boy loves to have her.” 

So Dolly remained, and when she went 
home a few days later it was with the prom- 
ise of future meetings. Peace was out- 
wardly restored between the two houses. 
Charlie’s manner to Philip when they met 
was chilly in the extreme, and Margaret had 
never got over her first feeling against Mary, 
though she did her best to be cordial to her 
for Sissy’s sake. But thei’e was no open 
breach, and intercourse was possible. 

Maxwell, seriously uneasy at hearing 
nothing from Sissy, had written to Mar- 
garet. 

“She has missed three mails,” he wrote. 
“Is anything wrong?” 

And Margaret could only counsel pa- 
tience. 

“Sissy is not herself,” she wrote. “I am 
very anxious about her. She has had a 
great shock, and has not got over it. The 
tragedy of Eleanor Leigh’s death made a 


260 


IN SPITE OF ALL 


deep impression on her. I wish I could take 
her abroad for a thorough change, but I 
doubt if she would go, and Charlie does not 
want to give up his hunting, though he would 
do so for Sissy’s sake. But they are not 
very good friends just now, I am sorry to 
say. You know how people who love each 
other deeply can hurt each other. He is im- 
patient with her, and she resents it — she who 
used to be so sweet and forgiving. I some- 
times ask myself if I have come between 
them. I hope not. I would do anything to 
make Sissy happy. But I think it lies 
deeper.” 

It was Charlie’s pride that made him so 
hard on Sissy. He saw further than Mar- 
garet gave him credit for, and Sissy knew it. 
The twins had an instinctive perception of 
each other’s moods. Margaret’s letter was 
not calculated to allay Maxwell’s anxiety, 
but she thought it was only right to give him 
a hint how things were tending. It would 
soften the blow in the end. For she was 
under no illusions as to Sissy’s feelings. 


IN SPITE OF ALL 


261 


One morning Philip rode over, to Whar- 
ton, and asked Sissy to be his wife. Mary 
Roche was engaged to be married. On her 
last visit to her native country she had come 
across a delightful young Irishman, who had 
had the sense to look below the surface. He 
was not then in a position to marry, but they 
had corresponded. ever since; and, now that 
he had got the appointment he had been hop- 
ing for, he wrote at once to ask her to share 
his future. 

“I have little to offer you. Sissy,” said the 
man who had once been her devoted lover. 
“I am a broken man, and my best days are 
over. But if you will take pity on me, for 
the child’s sake. You are fond of Dolly.” 

Sissy listened and wondered. How dif- 
ferent was this from his first proposal ! The 
wish of her heart was granted to her. Had 
it come too late? Was this all he could find 
to say to her who had loved him so deeply 
and unselfishly when he had trampled on her 
affections and almost broken her heart? 
And Maxwell, who had waited for her so 


262 


IN SPITE OF ALE 


patiently, and whom she had used so ill — 
what right had she to listen to Phihp, who 
was so immeasurably his inferior, who came 
to her now because he wanted a mistress for 
his house and a mother for his child? And 
yet, in spite of all, her heart was his, and 
when his call came, indifferent, almost cold 
as it was, she had no choice but to obey. She 
placed her hand in his. 

“For the child’s sake and for your sake, 
Philip, I will do my best.” 

It was a strange betrothal. There had 
been no word of love on either side. Per- 
haps Philip felt this; for, stooping down 
hastily, he kissed her. 

“I am utterly unworthy of you, Sissy,” 
he said, “but I will try to make you happy.” 

Her sore heart was a little comforted. 

Charlie was furious. That his sister 
should cheapen herself in this way, pick up 
the glove directly it was thrown to her! 
And what about Maxwell, whom she had 
tacitly agreed to marry? Margaret tried in 
vain to soften his indignation. 


IN SPITE OF ALL 263 

“You mustn’t be angry with her, Char- 
lie.” 

“But I am — very angry, Margaret.” 

“Remember,” she pleaded, “there was no 
engagement.” 

“What does that matter? It was just as 
good. I call that a quibble. She has cor- 
responded with him for nearly three years. 
Poor old Maxwell — to serve him such a 
scurvy trick at the last! I am ashamed of 
Sissy. And after the way Leigh has treated 
her!” 

“She can not help it,” said Margaret. 
“She loves him. A woman will forgive any- 
thing to her first love.” 

“Well, all I can say is I wish to wash my 
hands of her. She will five to repent it — 
you mark my words.” 

For some days he refused to speak to her 
— but when she came to him, and putting her 
arms round his neck, kissed him and wept, 
and implored him not to be vexed with her, 
he could not hold out. She was his only sis- 
ter, and he loved her. 


264 IN SPITE OF ALL 

“You won’t be happy, my poor girl,” he 
told her. 

“I don’t expect to be very happy, Char- 
he,” she answered. “But I shall be less un- 
happy with him than with any one else.” 

She had written to Maxwell a short little 
note, to tell him of her engagement. 

“Forgive me — he needs me so much. 
You are strong, you can stand alone.” 

To this she received no answer. She 
could not expect one. She had sinned 
against him past forgiveness. 

They were married very quietly not long 
afterward. Charlie gave her away, much 
against his will — but he and Sissy had buried 
their differences, and he was going to see her 
through. She wore a simple white dress 
and a veil which had belonged to her mother. 
It was with a curious sense of unreality that 
she stood by Philip’s side and plighted him 
the troth which she had vowed him in her 
heart so long ago. It was only six years, 
after all, but it seemed a lifetime. The 
promise of her youth had come true at last, 


IN SPITE OF ALL 


265 


but with what a difference! Everything 
comes to him who waits, but the bloom of the 
fruit had gone off in the waiting. This was 
not the Philip of her girlish dreams, this 
weary, disappointed man who did not even 
pretend to give her more than the burnt-out 
ashes of a heart wasted by his passion for an- 
other woman. Yet he was a young man 
still, not thirty-five. Tears came into Sissy’s 
eyes, but she forced them back. Such as he 
was, she would not have exchanged him for 
any one else. He needed her, and if she 
could bring any measure of peace and hap- 
piness into his shattered life it would not 
have been all in vain. 


CHAPTER XX 

THE END OF THE CHAPTER 

S issy began her married life with a definite 
aim and object — to rouse Philip from 
the lethargy into which he had sunk since 
Eleanor’s death. She tempted him out of 
the study, where he had been wont to spend 
so many dreary hours, and persuaded him to 
take an interest in the management of the es- 
tate. The land which had come to him free 
and unencumbered had been mortgaged, to 
meet the demands of Eleanor’s extrava- 
gances; but Sissy hoped that, with economy 
and wise administration, that might be set 
right. Her own money, of course, was set- 
tled on herself, but her first act was to hand 
over the income to Philip. She could not 
bear to hold anything independently of him. 
In spite of Charlie’s prophecy, she was not 

' unhappy. Her life was too full for that. 
266 


END OF THE CHAPTER 267 


Little Dolly adored her and followed her 
everywhere, and day by day she became 
more necessary to her husband. Charlie 
grew reconciled to the marriage as time went 
on. He was pleased to see his sister take a 
leading position in the county, and it was 
nice to have her settled so near. The new 
Lady Leigh won golden opinions from all. 
People came to call as they never did in 
Eleanor’s time, when the house was filled 
with guests they did not care to meet — much 
more amusing, Eleanor declared, than the 
country frumps. 

Some wondered that Eleanor’s portrait 
still hung over the mantelpiece in the dining- 
room, but Sissy was incapable of such petty 
revenge as the removal of her rival’s picture. 
Y et it hurt her to see that flaunting beauty 
facing her, and to perceive Philip’s eyes wan- 
dering to it when he thought she was not 
looking. But all her life Sissy had faced 
things, and lived them down. The Scarlet 
Lady remained in her garret. Like Elea- 
nor, Sissy had no fear of the old superstition. 


268 END OF THE CHAPTER 


but for a nobler reason. There were higher 
and holier influences at work in the house 
now, and she was not afraid. 

One thing troubled Sissy with growing 
anxiety, and that was her husband’s health. 
He was much too thin and had a curious, 
hollow cough. But he was impatient when 
questioned, and refused to see the doctor. 
It was absurd, he said, for a trifle like that — 
he was all right. But she noticed that any 
extra exertion tired him, and that he got 
breathless when he walked up a hill. The 
Leighs were not a strong family, she knew, 
and Philip’s father had died of consumption 
at an early age, but Philip himself had never 
shown any signs of delicacy until now. 

A little heir to Wharton was born in 
September. There were great rejoicings. 
Charlie was a proud and happy father, and 
felt that his cup of earthly happiness was 
full. He had nothing left to wish for. 
Cecil was much pleased with his haby 
brother. He looked upon him rather in the 
light of a new plaything, and Margaret had 


END OF THE CHAPTER 269 

to explain that he must be very gentle vpith 
him. 

“It will be a long time before he will be 
able to go out with dad and me, won’t it, 
mummy?” he asked. 

“A very long time, my darling,” she an- 
swered, and wondered if childish jealousy 
had prompted the question. But Charlie 
had amply redeemed his promise to be a 
father to her boy, and the two were the best 
of friends. 

Sissy came over to spend the day with her 
sister-in-law. She looked rather worried, 
and confided to Margaret her fears with re- 
gard to Philip. 

“I don’t like it, Margaret,” she said. “I 
can not get him to see a doctor. And he 
does such imprudent things. I dare not 
leave him even for a night, or I would have 
come to you, Margaret dear.” 

“I quite understand,” answered Mar- 
garet. “But I think you are over-anxious. 
He looks all right to me — much better than 
he did when you married him.” 


270 END OF THE CHAPTER 


“Ah! You see him at his best,” sighed 
Sissy. “I will get Dr. Giles to come and 
dine, and take a look at him.” 

But when the doctor came he was rather 
reassuring. Of course he could not tell, 
without thoroughly overhauling him, and 
that Philip would not permit. But he was 
looking well that night, and did not cough 
while the doctor was there. Dr. Giles com- 
plimented Sissy on the improvement she had 
worked in him. She took heart again. He 
certainly looked much happier. He liked 
her company, and it was always his for the 
asking. She rode and drove with him, and 
they were seldom seen apart. People re- 
marked how devoted the second Lady Leigh 
was to her husband, so different from the 
first. They dined at Wharton two or three 
times. Charlie was much more cordial in his 
manner to his brother-in-law, and there was 
nothing to find fault with in the manner of 
the two men to each other. This was a great 
relief to Sissy, who had feared they would 
never be friends. Driving home after din- 


END OF THE CHAPTER 271 


ner with her husband beside her, she ventured 
to indulge a trembling hope that brighter 
days were in store for them both. 

But this was St. Martin’s summer. The 
winter, alas! was at hand. 

Margaret had begun to come down to 
breakfast again, much to Charlie’s satisfac- 
tion. He liked to see her sitting opposite 
him in her pretty morning-gown, while he 
read his paper and told her the news. 

“A letter for you from Sissy,” he re- 
marked. 

“I thought I should have seen her yester- 
day,” remarked Margaret, opening it. 
Then she uttered an exclamation. 

“What is it? Anything wrong?” 

“Philip has broken a blood vessel. He 
is ordered to Davos immediately. She 
wants to know if we will take charge of 
Dolly.” 

“Of course. Poor Sissy! Is she very 
much upset?” 

“I think so, but she doesn’t say much,” 
handing him the letter. “Charlie, you must 


272 END OF THE CHAPTER 


go over at once.” She would have liked to 
go herself, but he had the prior claim. 

“Tell her I will come over this afternoon,” 
she called out as he rode away. 

He found Sissy in the midst of prepara- 
tions, very pale, but calm and composed. 
She had telegraphed to the hotel at Davos 
for rooms, and written to engage a courier 
who had been recommended to her by one of 
her friends a short time before. She had 
never been abroad herself, and it was im- 
portant that the journey should be made 
easy for Philip. 

“How did it happen?” asked Charlie. 

“Quite suddenly. I sent for the doctor at 
once. We managed to stop the bleeding at 
last, and then Dr. Giles thoroughly exam- 
ined him. He says there has been mischief 
for some time past, but by taking steps at 
once it may be cured.” 

“How is he now?” 

“Better, but he must be kept very quiet. 
The sight of the blood was very alarming.” 

Her voice shook a little as she spoke. A 


END OF THE CHAPTER 273 


hush seemed to have fallen on the house with 
the alarming illness of its master. The serv- 
ants moved quietly about, and spoke in low- 
ered tones. Little Dolly looked scared, and 
Charlie suggested that Margaret ought to 
take her back to Wharton when she came 
that afternoon. 

“She will be out of your way, and you 
will have quite enough to think about.” 

Sissy gratefully accepted. 

Three days later they were on their way 
abroad, in that sad pursuit of health which 
often seems only to prolong the agony. At 
first Philip got much better ; he lost his cough 
and began to put on flesh. Then his nerves 
went wrong, and Sissy had a trying time for 
some weeks. Then — but why dwell on the 
fluctuations of this tendble malady, with its 
hopes and fears? Through it all they drew 
very near together. His old love for her 
came back, chastened by the thought of the 
parting which both saw lay before them. 
News reached Wharton at fitful intervals, 
when Sissy felt able to write. At last came 


274 END OF THE CHAPTER 


a telegram to Charlie begging him to come 
to her — it was more than she could cope with 
alone. He started at once, traveling night 
and day, but when he reached Davos all was 
over. He found Sissy prostrate. That 
last week of nursing had exhausted her re- 
maining strength, and, the strain ended, she 
collapsed entirely. He brought her back to 
Wharton by slow and easy stages, the 
shadow of her former self. It was a crushed 
and broken Sissy he put into Margaret’s 
arms, to be kissed and cried over, and ten- 
derly nursed back to health. Once she said, 
with a shudder: “Oh, Margaret, that ter- 
rible delirium! Thank God! there was 
peace at last.” 

But, except for this, she never told any 
one what she had gone through during those 
weeks of suffering. They had brought their 
reward. Before he died he kissed and 
blessed her, and told her God had sent her 
to be his comfort. He went down into the 
dark valley with his hand in hers and her 
name on his lips. 


END OF THE CHAPTER 275 


She stayed with them three months while 
Charlie looked after her affairs and settled 
everything. The new owner of Langton 
was out in India with his regiment, but he 
wrote asking Sissy to make it her home as 
long as she hked, and said she would be con- 
ferring a favor on him by doing so. But 
she could not bear to go back there — it was 
too full of associations — yet she could not 
stay indefinitely as a guest even with those 
she loved best. She felt she must have some 
place of her own. So she took the little house 
at Granby which Margaret had rented dur- 
ing her widowhood, and where she would be 
close at hand. Here she remained during 
the summer months, gradually regaining her 
looks and health, but with a heart that 
seemed deadened to everything but the mem- 
ories of the past. 


CHAPTER XXI 
maxwell’s return 

M atters had reached this stage when 
Maxwell returned from South Africa. 
The regiment had been kept out there after 
the war to help to settle the country. He 
was Colonel Maxwell now — V. C., C. B. — in 
command of the regiment, with a splendid 
record behind him. His first visit was to 
Wharton, where he was received with open 
arms. 

“It seems like old times to have you back 
again, old man,” said Charlie heartily. 

“Old times — with a difference,” answered 
Maxwell, smiling. “How do you like being 
monarch of all you survey?” 

“I don’t dislike it,” Charlie owned. 

The heir of Wharton was brought in and 
duly admired. Cecil regarded the visitor 

with much interest, and asked what he had 
276 


MAXWELL’S RETURN 277 


done with his sword. He was much disap- 
pointed to hear it had been left in London. 

‘T had to get it sharpened,” said Maxwell 
gravely. 

Cecil’s face lighted up. 

“After killing the Boers?” he inquired 
eagerly. 

Maxwell nodded. 

“Daddy says,” pursued the boy, “that 
you’ve got a cross, which is more than any 
gold can buy. May I see it?” 

He was a little disappointed when he saw 
the plain metal trophy, but Margaret, call- 
ing him to her, showed him the words For 
Valor engraved on it, and explained their 
meaning. He looked at Maxwell with in- 
creased respect. 

“When I grow up,” be said, “I’ll have a 
cross like that.” 

“I hope you will, old chap,” said his step- 
father. 

The two men had much to talk about that 
evening. They discussed the later events of 
the war, and Charlie asked after his old 


278 MAXWELL’S RETURN 


comrades — many of them, alas! no longer 
in the land of the living — while Margaret 
listened and put in a word or two now and 
then. 

“Do you never regret the Army?” asked 
Maxwell. 

“Sometimes, but I should never have been 
much good with this arm of mine. There is 
plenty to do here, though you might not 
think it. And now that I am a family 
man,” exchanging a glance with his wife, 
which Maxwell intercepted. 

“You are a lucky fellow!” he exclaimed. 
“What has he done, Mrs. Wharton, to de- 
serve it?” 

He checked a sigh. Margaret guessed 
what was in his mind. 

“You haven’t asked after Sissy,” said 
Charlie at length. 

“I hope Lady Leigh is well,” said Max- 
well formally. 

Charlie stared at him in amazement. 

“Why, Maxwell,” he blurted out, “don’t 
you care for Sissy any more?” 


MAXWELL’S RETURN 279 


It was so characteristic of Charlie that 
Maxwell could not help laughing. 

“My dear fellow,” he said, “do you sup- 
pose she wants me to? She took an effec- 
tual means of curing me, you must con- 
fess.” 

But Charlie was bitterly disappointed. 

“I always hoped she would end up with 
Maxwell,” he confided to his wife when they 
were alone. 

“So she will,” answered Margaret con- 
solingly. “His pride has been cruelly hurt, 
but he loves her still. Let me talk to him.” 

The next day she took him out for a long 
walk and told him all that Sissy had gone 
through — her sorrow, her agony of mind, the 
overtaxing of nerves and strength in those 
long months of sorrow and anxiety. 

“If you saw her now, you would be sorry 
for her.” 

She pleaded for her with all a woman’s 
persuasive power; and Maxwell, at the bot- 
tom of his heart, was only too ready to be 
convinced. 


280 MAXWELL’S RETURN 


“Have you ever thought,” said Margaret, 
“of what she has undergone? You have 
much to forgive, but she had more. You 
have suffered, but what was your suffering 
compared to hers? Poor Philip! he is dead, 
and I would not say anything against him, 
but if you think her life was easy with him 
you are very wrong. Oh!” exclaimed Mar- 
garet, “when I think of it all, I reverence 
Sissy.” 

Maxwell listened, more moved than he 
would allow. 

“That is all very well, Mrs. Wharton,” he 
said at last. “I see it from her point of 
view, and I forgive her, though I once 
thought I never could. She dealt me the 
cruelest blow a man could receive. Rut, in 
what you are telling me, I don’t see where I 
come in.” 

“You care for her still,” said Margaret 
softly. 

“I shall always take an interest in her wel- 
fare.” 

“Is that all? But I know it is not. Ask 


MAXWELL’S RETURX 281 

Charlie’s advice. Men understand one an- 
other.” 

And that night after dinner, over their 
cigars. Maxwell broached the subject. 

“Your wife has been talking to me,” he 
began. 

Charlie looked up. 

“About Sissy? Look here. Maxwell, I 
don’t want to throw my sister at any man’s 
head. If your feelings have changed, say 
so. But, if not — ” 

“If not, what, Charlie?” asked Maxwell 
rather eagerly, as the other paused. 

“I should say go in and win. The coast is 
clear. As long as poor Leigh was anywhere 
round, you hadn’t a chance. She would al- 
ways have been hankering after him. But, 
now’s he gone, she can’t mourn him forever. 
That chapter of her life is closed.” 

Maxwell smiled at Charlie’s homely wis- 
dom, but he shook his head. 

“I must have something more to go upon.” 
he said. “She threw me over. How do I 
know she would care to see me?” 


282 MAXWELL’S RETURN 


“I’ll write and ask her,” said Charlie, with 
alacrity. 

By return of post came the answer. 

“I shall be very glad to see Colonel Max- 
well, if he cares to come.” 

Colonel Maxwell! This was putting 
things on a new footing. But perhaps she 
was wise, thought Maxwell. It would be 
less embarrassing, A day or two elapsed 
before he availed himself of the invitation. 
It would not do to appear too eager. Mar- 
garet’s words had prepared him to find Sissy 
changed, but when he was ushered into the 
drawing-room, and she came forward to wel- 
come him, he could not repress a start. 
Was this the Sissy of his recollection — this 
pale, sad-eyed woman with her languid step 
and the sorrowful droop of her mouth? Not 
that she had lost her looks; her face had a 
pathetic, arresting beauty that compelled 
the beholder’s attention, but grief wrapped 
her round, like a garment, and set her apart. 
A wave of compassion swept over b’m. Re- 
sentment faded away. 


MAXWELL’S RETURN 283 


“It was kind of you to come,” she said; 
and he was struck afresh by the sound of her 
voice. It had lost its vibrant tone, was flat 
and deadened, attuned to the atmosphere of 
a sick-room. “Dolly, darling, go and ask 
them to give us tea.” 

The child flew to obey, and returning sat 
down on a low stool by Sissy’s side and 
nestled close to her. 

“This is my little daughter,” said Sissy 
fondly. “Dolly, shake hands with Colonel 
Maxwell.” 

Philip’s child! It seemed to place an im- 
measurable distance between him and Sissy 
— would he ever be able to cross it? 

Sissy had gone through too much to feel 
awkward. They were soon talking, like or- 
dinary acquaintances, of Maxwell’s journey 
home and the state of affairs in South 
Africa. By tacit consent they avoided 
deeper suhjeets, but each was taking stock 
of the other. Sissy regarded with growing 
respect and admiration the man beside her. 
He had come unscathed through great dan- 


284 MAXWELL’S RETURN 


gers, and had acquired dignity and assur- 
ance. He moved and spoke like a man ac- 
customed to command his fellow-men. And 
he, too, was finding out fresh quahties in 
Sissy, a broader outlook, the self-reliance of 
one who had had to decide for herself and 
for others. Her girlish sweetness had deep- 
ened into a nobility of character that he felt 
without being able to define. They had both 
looked death in the face since they last met 
— ^he for himself, she for the man she loved. 
The knowledge drew them together with a 
subtle sympathy, conscious though unex- 
pressed. 

When at last he rose to go. Sissy thanked 
him for coming. 

“It has been a great pleasure,” she said 
simply. 

“May I come again?” asked Maxwell. 

“Whenever you like. I shall always be 
glad to see you.” 

He availed himself of the permission, but 
sparingly, and Sissy grew to look forward 
to his visits. He treated her with a gentle- 


MAXWELL’S RETURN 285 


ness very soothing to her bruised spirit. 
They were still “Colonel Maxwell” and 
“Lady Leigh” to each other, but beneath the 
formal terms a warm friendship for him was 
springing up on Sissy’s side. What Max- 
well’s feelings were, he kept to himself. 

They had long talks beside the sea in the 
beautiful evenings, when he unfolded to her 
his ambitions, and she listened with sym- 
pathy and interest. He was a keen and ar- 
dent soldier, centered in his profession. 
They were next on the roll for India, and he 
expected to be ordered out there the follow- 
ing year. 

His leave came to an end, and he returned 
to his regiment. But he came up to Whar- 
ton for Christmas and knelt behind Sissy in 
the little chapel that was so familiar. They 
had that in common at least — on the deepest 
subject of all they felt alike. She greeted 
him as an old friend, and was glad to see 
him. At Whitsuntide he came again for a 
few days, in order to keep in touch with her. 
And then in the autumn came the expected 


286 MAXWELL’S RETURN 


order to India, and he ran up to say good-by. 

“Is it too soon to speak?” he asked Mar- 
garet. 

“I don’t know,” she answered, “but I 
should try. She is coming over to-morrow 
to see you before you go.” 

Sissy arrived in the morning, and after 
luncheon Margaret discreetly left them 
alone. Maxwell did not speak ; he was won- 
dering how to broach the subject. It was 
Sissy who broke the silence. 

“I am very sorry you are going,” she 
said. 

“It is hard to go,” he replied, “but you 
can make it easy. Sissy, I once thought I 
could never speak of this again. Send me 
away now, and I will never trouble you any 
more. But if you can care for me, tell me.” 

“Bernard,” she said, “have you forgiven 
me?” 

“My dear,” he answered, “I can not help 
myself. Whatever you did I should have 
to forgive you.” 

“I did you a great wrong.” 


MAXWELL’S RETURN 287 


‘Tt is not too late to set it right.” 

She looked up, and in her eyes he read her 
surrender. 

He was very gentle with her. Indeed, he 
could hardly believe that the prize he had 
coveted so long was at last within his grasp. 

“You don’t know,” she told him, “how 
much I have suffered. At first I could only 
think of myself — and him — but, lately — you 
have been so good to me — ” 

She paused. He took her hand and 
kissed it. 

“How soon must you go?” she asked him 
presently. 

He told her. 

“And then — when shall I see you again?” 

“My dearest — I hardly dare to ask you — 
but will you come with me?” 

“So soon! Oh, Bernard, I can not.” 

“Think,” he pleaded, “how many years I 
have had to wait. I am afraid to lose sight 
of you. Who knows what may happen? 
You eluded me once.” 

In the end he prevailed. Before Charlie 


288 MAXWELL’S RETURN 


and Margaret had time to recover from their 
astonishment at the rapidity of events, Sissy 
was married and on her way to India. Dolly 
remained at Wharton for the time being, 
but only until they had settled down. Sissy 
was quite determined that the child should 
not grow up apart from her. India was not 
what it was. They were going to a healthy 
station, and there were always the hills in 
summer. 

Lady Leigh had no children, but Mrs. 
Maxwell has two beautiful boys, the pride 
of their father’s heart. Dolly is devoted to 
them, and Sissy has never failed in affection 
for her little stepdaughter. She took her 
into her heart the day she found her crying 
by the roadside ; and, from the day she mar- 
ried Philip, Dolly never knew what it was to 
miss a mother’s love. She grew up very 
happily under the roof to which she had 
no natural claim. Maxwell was good to her, 
and if, in his inner consciousness, he was 
sometimes a little jealous of Sissy’s fond- 
ness for the child of his dead rival, he was 


MAXWELL’S RETURN 289 


too kind-hearted to show it. He reaped the 
reward of his years of devotion. Sissy gave 
him her whole heart, which she would never 
have done if things had fallen out otherwise. 
Yet she never forgot Philip, whose name 
was enshrined in her prayers. Alone with 
Dolly she often talked of him, and taught the 
little girl to cherish the memory of the fa- 
ther she had lost. 


THE END 


PRINTED BY BENZIGER BROTHERS, NEW YORK. 


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